Down to the Ocean in Hopes

featured in the poetry forum August 31, 2017  :: 0 comments

She goes down to the ocean in hopes
Where tidal powers set hearts aglow
Like a full moon off a sand dune
The cycle renews itself

Quietly pulled to the liquid, unleashed
Free from expectations and experience
Universal flow is dancing

The streams and rivers that have scarred her life
Highways and streets, slashing through
Original wilderness, original paradise, original being
All return to where the sun surrenders to waves and depth

Poseidon and a million Sirens blow her hair
Into free-form tendrils
As she faces the maritime horizon

At the wet communion altar rail, she prostrates
With sand caking her knees and thighs
She petitions the ocean with a knowing smile
Her flesh exposed, like a tender bloom, too long in the desert

The elemental sacrament complete
She is quenched and restored
By the totality of Earth’s nursery and vastness

This pilgrimage to the edge of other worlds
Has renewed passions for divine and vulgar things
With the fortitude of sub-Atlantic mountains
And the tenacity of threatened coral reefs

She has never been alone.

– PW Covington

editors note:

For all our self-imposed supremacy, we are always (and ever) tamed by the sea. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum August 30, 2017  :: 0 comments

Parents of mine gifted me an ancestral gift
Acronym of submissive attitudes and rebellious households
Tired limp bodies from the routines of every night
Roaring of abuses and touches hushed up in long veils of cultures
Invisible stains of countless deaths whose murderer is out on bail
Anarchy of voices, together but always pulling each other behind the curtains for speaking aloud would result in unintended censoring
Ripen spirits to take what has been always theirs
Crushing dominance and reclaiming their own homes
Hands raised at each other and not with each other
Yelling and urging others to break the prison but yet to find their own key to freedom

– Aishwarya Shrivastav

editors note:

A legacy worth losing. – mh clay

Hades to Mankind

featured in the poetry forum August 25, 2017  :: 0 comments

I am ashes and I am fire, I am the burning building
and the rage with which the Lord sent Adam away.
I am the universe held within your fingertips
As you write letters and apologies to sadistic bullies.

Dynamite, verses written within my tortured hand,
Held tightly against the grappling waves
Made to buy weapons of mass destruction, I
Am a broken vase in the middle of your mansion.

Touches of soot, iron and lead, beasts crawling
Beneath the ground- roaring from underneath as
Spiritus Mundi, the gyre no longer in motion
As children rise covered in blood and soot.

A strange stench surrounding you,
Drenched in broken dreams forming a
Hearth around the ones you claimed to love.
Half-breeds and fucking nuns,
Monasteries all over cities under God’s eye,
And in his name, under Apollo’s light, they destruct lives.

A cautious imitation of the end of the world,
The Mayans, Egyptians and men of God
Predicted your bloody death, as you lay in bed
Held within a tomb of greed,
You can plead and scream but
The seed you sowed has finally come to reap.

– Maryam Sheikh

editors note:

A lesson for any who (think they) have no more to learn. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum August 21, 2017  :: 0 comments

Drift through Romantic and Classical
computer music
from the nearby desk top
…lying in bed
with sweat pants and tea shirt
and warmed by a heater

…go make a liaison
with that similar dream and mistress
to all sleep
with its narcotic yearnings

…go and lift up
the spirit
to those realms of Heaven
or the underworld

cozied by cracks
in that feral cave

and watch History unravel
in the back of your psychotic mind

…abstract images! with hints of gods and beasts
layer these peopled immersions
in fear
and love
and passion

layer the crowd
which has left its mark on the psyche
since childhood

all sexy
and humid and decadent

…and innocent places
which warm the frightened soul
with a sense
of benign

– Sam Silva

editors note:

Read in the half-light of an eclipse to amplify our sense of insignificance. – mh clay

Choose your name

featured in the poetry forum August 17, 2017  :: 0 comments

Wash your lime, peel yourself
Be blue gem,
Never be in hot pursuit
O blunt! Lopsided smile
Your spirit has muster for yourself
Make a bid
Sow your peace seed
Then you will sound
By your fruit name
Set out… !

– Surbhi Anand

editors note:

Know your tree, then fall not far from it. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum August 15, 2017  :: 0 comments

a true Danish story

This is the land lot,
while the vegetation around – the only surviving mark
of the house that succumbed once the man did.

Every time he headed to and back from the seas,
the Viking descendant left and returned to his abode
surrounded on every side by trees as high
as his giant build.

One night, alas, he couldn’t make it back,
abandoning home all on its own – first time ever!

All that the following morning witnessed
was a catacomb
of roof and walls and trees flattened aground,
and a flock of seagulls paying their last respects
up in that patch of a mournful sky.

Copenhagen, fall of 2016
English Translation by Arben P. Latifi

– Alisa Velaj

editors note:

The story that place can tell when person has passed. – mh clay

A Father’s Hand

featured in the poetry forum August 11, 2017  :: 0 comments

A hand.
A father’s hand.
A father’s hand is meant
To cradle, to rock, to support,
To pat backs, to push bicycles along paths,
To ruffle hair, to caress cheeks, to tickle ribs and feet,
To turn pages, to model the use of pencils and pocket knives,
To redirect the lost, to lift up the fallen, to hold the frightened,
To comfort the saddened, to shine light into dark corners and closets.

So when a father’s hand closes,
Conceals the soft palm with digging nails,
Exposes only hard, wrinkled, cracked,
Cracking knuckles, tightly wrapped bone, veins pulsing
with raging adrenaline, tiny tangled hairs,
It changes things

Though you don’t know where it comes from,
You feel the anger seeping from his heart,
You feel the frustration flowing from his mind,
You feel the hatred in his eyes
Converted by some fantastical feat of physics into force,
Applied to your patted back, your caressed cheeks, your tickled ribs,
You feel his fear of inadequacy, you feel his father’s hands,
Until you’re lost and fallen
Until you’re frightened and saddened
Until you seek dark corners and closets for comfort
Until you look down one day and realize that his hands are now yours.
His hands have molded you, have pointed you down paths,
Have modeled forceful responses to frustration, to anger, to hatred, to fear

So, how do you pat the backs, push the bikes, tussle the hair, tickle the feet,
Without passing all of that along,
Without handing your father’s and his father’s
And his father’s and his father’s hands
Down into the hands of your future grandchildren’s father?

I sure don’t know, but god damn it,
I’m trying.


editors note:

Sounds like this father has the task in hand. – mh clay

love story

featured in the poetry forum August 8, 2017  :: 0 comments

why does my photographer friend
ask the models to avoid greasepaint?

I think
the camera reciprocates a mirror

The mirror makes an impression
and reveals the concealment
of flaws

The camera mocks the disguise
and celebrates light

– Kiriti Sengupta

editors note:

Gotta wear shades to see her shine. – mh clay

Up in smoke

featured in the poetry forum July 31, 2017  :: 0 comments

wandering the night
in the heat – the rain
pierced by the rays of your heart
the razor blade-coated man appears
glinting underneath the pallid street lamps
I saw the labors of love in the lunatic devil’s eyes
it didn’t sound like we know how to survive
but we loved in each other mutilating each a tender bit of soul
something of the song I sang
as he slashed me across the chest running – without laughter
thieving our nocturnal music
awaiting the gauze-girl, that enchantress of death and misery
harnessing the pendulum of oblivion
which one of us not being a nightmare – excalibur concepts
we can reach out all
we want lady of the lake, slut of the sea
salt crystals in her hair, barnacles between her teeth
pearl skin of deathly decay
the avalon of despair- where no wounded heroes come back
but that’s really the point of it all, isn’t it?
kingdom gone, the germination of hope
this is why poetry lingers – like the gas leak in an apartment
outdated lines – rusted, broken
sometimes it’s better to asphyxiate – in a delirium of delightful dreaming
but I rather light the match with a cheshire cat smile
take a puff from an overly expensive cigar
take the whole damn tenement down with me

– Mike Zone

editors note:

If he can’t have then no one can. Calmly walk to the exit nearest you. – mh clay

On Loss

featured in the poetry forum July 28, 2017  :: 0 comments

I have lost
so many things
to life that
now, I wonder,
if even I
belong to myself

– Rajtilak Bhattacharjee

editors note:

Yeah! Do we ever? – mh clay