Featured Poems


by on May 4, 2015 :: 0 comments

An old man with his books
In serried ranks behind him
Smart, respectable
No open necked collar
Or unshaven countenance

A retired scholar
Professor and Vice-Chancellor
Distinguished, honoured
No years wasted
In idleness

An establishment figure
Fingers still
Clinging tightly
To the crumbling edges
Of his inheritance.

– David Subacchi

editors note:

Digitized and distributed to secure perpetual recall. – mh clay

These Dark Days

by on May 3, 2015 :: 0 comments

For Leigh, on her birthday, with love in my heart,
I dedicate this poem to you, starlight.

Some days I think
in a deep dark gloom,
and I ask myself this question:
​D​oes love truly transform?
Is love a bright light in this
dark and vicious world?
I wonder in silence.

Then you are here.
You show yourself to me,
and once again I fall deeply in love with you.
In wonder and amazement
I love you as a father should,
other times,
as a friend trusted and true,
sometimes as a lover, a woman.

When you shine,
your starlight,
such beauty in a dark day;
a bright sun,
transforms my heavy heart;
shining on in the darkness,
your beauty​ ​- a star –
moves my heart to love.

When I see you bright as the sun,
I wonder at your beauty
and your bravery.

We are all dust.
Our bones, our flesh
made from the dust of distant dead stars.
This place, cruel and hard, is not our home;
We are only visitors here,
each lost and alone.

We hunger for our home;
Is it as close as the heart,
as distant as the stars?

I look into your eyes
and my heart is lighter,
that place of light
just a little closer.

editors note:

The answer here is, “Yes!” Light + Love = Transformation (We are happy to welcome John back to the ranks of our Contributing Poets. Read this and more of his madness on his reinstated page – check it out.)​ – mh clay


by on May 2, 2015 :: 0 comments

The house is.

An ancient house without a name,
do you know who lives there?

The house is not.

A chimerical vision in someone’s
mind, the old house is invisible.

Inside the stranger’s dream,
the house is,

without words,
beyond our world,

buried in the deep snow of his brain,

the house comes into being.

the house is not.

Who lives there?

the labyrinth of the night whispers
into the shell of my secret haven,

where I hide from the sphere of sadness.

Not I, a voiceless voice ensconced in my
eerie emptiness shrieks,

not in the House of Non-Existence.

Only the dead live there,
I proclaim defiantly in my private wasteland,

a whirligig whirling around nowhere.

Yet perhaps, I protest too much, in my
Shakespearian monologue,

for I hear the howling coming forth from the

maw of the Chimera,
interminable ululations inside the ancient

The House of Non-Existence is vast,
with room enough for the dead

other vanishing beings,

enough for a queue of sufferers spanning the

swirling universe,

for me too

editors note:

The house in this invisible vision is not – is. Crazy, Nowhere man! (This one is one-third of a trippin’ triptych. Read the other two to tweak your existence on Dr. Mel’s page – check’em out!) – mh clay

Dark Fantasy

by on May 1, 2015 :: 0 comments

All alone in a dark room –
I gather myself exhausted and tired
on to the bed placed in between two reflectors
sitting there
I look at the image on the left –
I wink
wink and wink and smile back
to please myself
I glance at the figure on the right –
it blinks
blinks and blinks back and frowns

editors note:

Wanderings in wonderland when bedded down with a smile and a frown. (Another of Aniruddha’s mad missives on his page; our common frustration – check it out.) – mh clay

in absentia

by on April 30, 2015 :: 0 comments

twisted in kind agony,
awash in hurried beats – I escaped walls to lectures
on how to stand knee deep in antiquity,
waiting for love to plumb, make whiny.

we’re all merry, enough – to forget a year we’ve passed.

we’re to ratiocinate vagrancies, with remorse.
but seduced by shapes, wanton geometry makes
me pluck it with my lips like a pin off a grenade,

and at times close to touch meaning, like a man, I spot faces hidden with powder cowering.

I am held back spying upon – by their anger curt,
wilted by abundance of light and no dirt.
they’ve jumped to the first age – their flesh truant.

doom struck at noon, lurched back to life,

done away with the nasty, we stuffed our troubles away.
we’ll continue to borrow our fellows’ stories.
we’re done for today.

– Shibaji Ray

editors note:

Interactive archeology; emotion as artifact. – mh clay

Don’t Be Afraid To Do This

by on April 29, 2015 :: 0 comments

Let the tears fall like old ladies
on black ice or like roses on coffins.
Let the tears fall like pine needles
on the carpet or hardwood floor
on the third or fourth of the new year.
Let the tears fall like radiant embers
on the 4th of July, my Mayan birthday.
Let the tears fall like hail in August
over the last few days at the reservoir.
Let the tears fall like obvious autumn
leaves doing their beautiful thing.
Let’s let the tears fall out on the floor
like a puppy dog’s tooth or like bird
shit on your picnic blanket.
Let’s let the tears fall like it’s ok
because it is.

editors note:

Yes! OK! Let’s let’em… – mh clay


by on April 28, 2015 :: 0 comments

Coffee tastes bitter,
metal tastes better

only when sliced, do I slip
into jaw breaking chewing gum,
law breaking stewing thumb,

which is floating in the soup
which, is eventually duped.

the toffee comes whittled
from the outside in,
carved and unsteady,
starved and unready

the toffee is brattled
from the inside out
as the mind stays rattled
with sharpened pencil tips,
sharpest window panes
cutting blood from blade

how should this matter
when the flavor is metal
and the taste feels warm
bitter like coffee,
but better like…

– Jada Yee

editors note:

A double-shot, hot milk-foamed, frappa-macchiato, mocha, mocha, my, my, um… can I get that with a blueberry scone? Make that two! – mh clay