Category: Poetry

Categories
Poetry

Traffic Jam by Rhys Hughes

TRAFFIC JAM

I was making toast
in the appropriate season 
for a wholesome
host of reasons
in a trundling caravan
on its way
to Amsterdam.

Suddenly I encountered
to my distress
an obstacle hindering
further progress:
a rather tasteless traffic jam.

Undeterred I proceeded
to spread that jam
on my toast
until the coast was clear.
Hadn’t I been
warned about the dangers
of queued strangers
by my mother?

In my haste
I washed it down
with strong Dutch beer
and now I fear
I have acquired a taste
for vehicles
stuck behind each other.

That’s right.
Every night before bed
I eat traffic jam
instead of drinking cocoa.
From Public Domain

Rhys Hughes has lived in many countries. He graduated as an engineer but currently works as a tutor of mathematics. Since his first book was published in 1995 he has had fifty other books published and his work has been translated into ten languages.

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Categories
Poetry

Poetry by Diane Webster

Diane Webster
SIDEWALK SHADOWS
 
Sunshine mottles 
through leaves,
casting shadows
of silhouettes
on the pavement below.
 
Look down
on a constellation map
spreading out for pedestrians
who stroll along.
 
Daytime sparkles
stars laid out
to travel light years
from block to block,
 
wormholing through
galaxies of heat waves
between universes
of neighbourhood trees.

 
A PASSION IN DAYLIGHT
 
She greets the rising sun like her daughter
used to peek her head over the bed sheets
to squint her eyes in the daylight bursting
through her curtains.
 
But she has only herself to wake up now,
to sit in the sun with her sewing machine
like she used to do with her mamma cat
purring on her lap.
 
She stitches together patterns of cloth
that sprawl in Picasso cubism period.
Once sewn together the piece functions
under the interpretation in the eye
of the beholder.
 
Her daughter hated to wear handmade skirts
or perfect-seamed dresses.
One of a kind made no impression because
her daughter dreamed of conforming to her friends,
a blend of sameness unravelling at the hems.
                                                                           
 
 
BY DARKNESS
 
He cultivates his office like a burrow
with shades drawn, a 25-watt
light bulb illuminating his lair
so when he steps outside,
he squints with prairie dog eyes
standing upright to assess his dangers
before progressing outward
almost holding on to the door jamb
until his fingers brush nothing,
and he is released
to forage down the carpet hallway
until laughter whistles in his ears,
and he darts back
comforted by the darkness
of his office burrow. 
 
KALEIDOSCOPIC PRIZE

This must be what it’s like
to walk inside a geode
when I step across
the cave’s threshold
and behold colours
sparkling in the interior.
 
An awe of wonder
in 360 degrees pushes
vertigo against my brain cells
attempting kaleidoscopic
reason between shape and colour,
 
Discovery of the prize inside
like in a box of Cracker Jacks...
the cave, the geode, the brain.
 
 
DRIFTWOOD WISH
 
Like dinosaur bones
scattered by scavengers,
driftwood tree trunks
lie on the sandy shore
awaiting discovery,
 
A crane-lifting ride
to the museum where
no seagulls sit and poop,
where no rain or wind
absconds with grains of self,
where a plexiglass sarcophagus
waits to house the carbon unit
behind fingerprints
and ooh/aah breath.

Diane Webster’s work has appeared in North Dakota Quarterly, New English Review, Studio One. She was a featured writer in Macrame Literary Journal and WestWard Quarterly. Her website is: www.dianewebster.com

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Categories
Poetry

Winter Meanderings by John Grey

From Public Domain 
FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW

The weather has landed 
and moved on.
The house evokes candy
with its frosted roof,
creamy shingles,
and crystalline hangings.
The grass is heavy
with its burden of snow.
And the trees gleam like porcelain
in the tepid sun.

Bundled up outside,
we leave visible footprints
in the yard,
whereas, in previous seasons,
our presence lacked such evidence
and yet, intuitively, 
we always know where we are,
what is ours, who we belong to.

The winter merely
reiterates the point I’m making.
It lacks our self-awareness.
So it sinks us deep instead.


ENVISION

Each evening, though
shaped by oncoming sleep,
my body informs me that
knowledge need no longer
conform to the physical.
So I gaze at black waters
of night, at sleep caves,
dream tunnels --
Senses float...sight on sound,
vision on taste.
Something awakens in me.
No, distractions ebb
so consciousness can flow.



NO POINT LOOKING UP 

Jupiter…it’s all just hydrogen and helium.
A liquid body with a small solid core.
No one gets to love on a planet like that.
Or vote. Or watch sports. See movies.

The sky, for all its heavenly associations,
is sure no cosmic comfort.
The light is dead by the time it reaches me.
And the moon, near as it is, is just a rocky squib.

My escape cannot be collapsing nebulae.
Or atmospheres of methane and ammonia.
Or icy dots. Or superdense neutron stars.
And spare me your planet X.  

There is no treasure up there.
No future. No work. No woman.
The good air sticks to what I know.
If I’m to breathe it, I can only be here.

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John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Shift, River And South and Flights. His latest books Bittersweet, Subject Matters and Between Two Fires are available through Amazon. He has upcoming work in Rush, Spotlong Review and Trampoline.

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Categories
Poetry

Poems by Tulip Chowdhury  

Tulip Chowdhury
SILENT GIVING 

Spring, summer, and autumn,
while the birds sang their seasonal tunes
humans beat loudly their own drums.

The bees collected their nectar well
while swans in the lake nearby
found their life-long mates
and yapped their love notes,

while sound and sights captured 
much of the yearly gifts to bless,
while in silence, a rose bush
gave her cloying fragrance 
and red flowers.

In life, we give of ourselves:
the best of what we have.


HOPES AND DREAMS 

The year 2025 found 
the world at a crazy stage
on which life danced.

Amidst the maddening politics, 
natural calamities and wars 
took the hardest hits.
In the turmoil, I feel like an ant under an elephant

When I wish to make a difference in life 
for someone in need — what have I to give?

Mother Teresa’s advice echoes
“If you cannot feed a hundred people,
then feed just one.”
I get up and venture out.

Surely, since I am alive and well;
there is something I can do for someone?

When hope for a better world crumbles like sand,
I send prayers up to heaven---
I know, they can move mountains.
And with prayers, 
I plant new seeds of dreams
for a peaceful world of tomorrow.

Tulip Chowdhury, a novelist, poet, and columnist, writes from Georgia, USA. Her books are available on Amazon. 

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Categories
Poetry

Homeward Bound

By Gautham Pradeep

A WALK BACK HOME 

I often find myself amidst the crumbling cliffside, 
mumbling words to myself. 
Within the mouth of the weeping river, 
I must disperse the ashes of an awakening. 
Through the darker brush, 
colour would soak the dry paper. 
In the corner of an eroding house,
I lack the search I'm entrusted. 
The mist I've felt this morn,
now buries me in a shawl of memories. 

The tiny tendril holding onto the iron railing, 
unwinds in the solitude it enjoys. 
It swirls in the nightly gale, 
swaying in its shallow reflection. 

A feeling surges in me, 
as the poison in a pitcher leaf. 
It urges the nightly stillness to visit the lonely house, 
its amber curtain still intact. 
The long lane, in front of me, 
is waning under the new moon. 
It was once the pen,
I had written my childhood with. 
The ink had flowed evenly, 
such as the poison in my drink. 
And now it must end abruptly, 
the tiny man in his bottle of wine. 
The twilight sky drinks the last few rays of the sun, 
while I sink in my purple drink.

Gautham Pradeep was born in Kerala, India. He is now pursuing an MBBS degree. He tries to explore the existential dilemmas of the his generation. His poems have been published widely.

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Categories
Poetry

Poems by Anne Whitehouse

Ann Whitehouse 
A FLEXIBLE OBJECT BENDS TO A QUICKENING FLOW

Leaves buffeted by wind 
roll up into tight cones.

When strong winds blow, 
daffodils twist so the backs 
of their petals face 
into the wind.

In air-flow experiments, 
a flexible fiber always 
settles at the boundary 
between the smooth stream 
and turbulent whirls,
following a universal shape,
like a flag flapping back and forth
in a steady pattern.


STRAWBERRY FIELDS

For Marnie MacLean
In memoriam Donald MacLean


The summer after my husband died,
the strawberry fields burst forth
with their greatest abundance
in forty-five years of our farming.

I sense Don’s lingering presence. 
as I walk the uneven furrows 
between the rows of strawberry plants.
I hear his voice in my ear,
calculating, planning, suggesting. 

We rotated our fields on a three-year cycle. 
After the harvest, the weeds took over, 
and we plowed it all under. The next spring,
we began again and harvested the second year.

I picture him riding his tractor.
A straw hat shields his face.
He is wearing jeans and a plaid shirt.
His tractor roars down the rows. 
Blackbirds wheel about his head.

Our children didn’t want the farm.
They envisioned other lives.
Ten years ago, we sold the land
to the county conservancy 
to preserve it as farmland in perpetuity.
Each year since then we leased it back. 

At night I walk outside with my dog.
Once an owl flew so low over my head
I sensed its shadow, though heard nothing,
and a shiver of fear went through me.

Now there is no sound but the breeze.
I smell the sweetness of the berries.
and I bless these fields that they may bring
peace and love to those who come 
to pick and eat our luscious fruit.
This season will be my last.

Anne Whitehouse is the author of poetry collections: The Surveyor’s Hand, Blessings and Curses, The Refrain, Meteor Shower, Outside from the Inside, and Steady, as well as art chapbooks, Surrealist Muse (about Leonora Carrington), Escaping Lee Miller, Frida, Being Ruth Asawa, and Adrienne Fidelin Restored. She is the author of a novel, Fall Love. 

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Categories
Poetry

Still, I Dance Alone…

By Laila Brahmbhatt

BETWEEN SONGS

We speak through 
what goes unspoken 
like singers between songs.
We could move as dancers do, 
through unrehearsed steps. 
Let’s speak a language 
of fluent silences, quiet breaths. 
When I yearn to sing and dance with you,
I rewind our unheard conversations. 
The tape holds only silence, 
Yet still, I sing.
Still, I dance alone.
From Public Domain

Laila Brahmbhatt, a Kashmiri/Jharkhand-rooted writer and Senior Immigration Consultant in New York, has published haiku and haibun in several international journals, including Cold Moon Journal and Failed Haiku.

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Categories
Poetry

When The Tide Turns

By Ramzi Albert Rihani

On the sidewalk of his existence,
he signs a lease for his coming days.
He earns a license of freedom
that puts him above the king of kings.

He’s a drifter waiting for the tide to turn
but happy if it never does
cause what he feels is the envy of people,
what he does not have is their fear.
On the surface, they pity him.
In the depths of their soul, they envy him.

Their expectation leads to disappointment.
Their defeat sounds like confinement.
His truth smells like liberation 
and his liberation provides him with freedom.

Fortunate are those who have very little,
for they may not know that they own the world.
Poor are those who have a lot, 
for they may not know that they own nothing.

He sits on the sidewalk 
lays back on his blanket,
his pillow is deeper than the ocean.
He watches the stars,
wishes the kings could share his view,
and wonders if the tide will ever turn.

Ramzi Albert Rihani is a Lebanese-American poet who resides in Maryland, USA. His poems have been published in the US, Canada, UK, and Ireland. He received the 2024 Polk Street Review first-place poetry award.

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Categories
Poetry

Kasheer by Saba Zahoor

From Public Domain 
KASHEER

Not Ptolemy’s Kasperia, nay, not Kashyap Mar –
Kasheer is the abode of irrevocable loss.
Homes razed to ground by centuries of betrayal:
we stand as mute specters – the ruins and I.


Kalhana, your word is lost!
Spiritual defeat has finally come to pass.
The era of pit dwellers and sun worshippers is gone,
And now the faithless grave worshippers abound.

“In time past, we were; in time future, we shall be;
Throughout the ages, we have been,” quoth Laila Arifa.
I shove back the diggers, frantic to cover
the long-lost city buried in my mind.


Kasheer might have forgotten the monster Jalodbhava,
Were it not for the wine bottles dangling from barbed wires.
I had happily lost my memory of you, until 
It was revived by the fish bones on mountain tops.


The mythical, the legendary -- that Kasheer is non-existent.
The snow endures longer than the memory of the dead.
It’s getting way too dark. Tell me a new story–
of Kasheer – the land reclaimed from the sea of sighs.

From Public Domain

Glossary

Kasperia is the ancient Greek name of Kashmir as mentioned by Ptolemy

Kashyap Mar is he abode of Kashyap, Kashmir, in Kashmiri

Kasheer is Kashmir in Kashmiri

Kalhan wrote Ratnagiri, an account of the history of Kashmir

Laila Arifa is a 14th century poetess who wrote in Kashmiri

Jalodbhava or Waterborn was a mythical demon who tormented the inhabitants of Lake Satisar in Kashmir. He was destroyed by the joint efforts of the sage Kashyap, Parvati and Vishnu. His destruction destroyed the lake and led to the formation of Srinagar, the current capital of Kashmir.

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Saba Zahoor, an engineer from Kashmir and self-styled peasant poet, views poetry as a portal to alternate realities and has been published in several literary outlets.

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Categories
Poetry

Three Poems by Cal Freeman

HAEMUS’ HEIGHTS 

A river bridge in Minneapolis,
the ragged sky all cloaked in river mist.

The only man to make the Furies weep
plaintively sings; he can no longer sleep.

In verdant meadows high above Rhodope,
shades cling to cypresses with little hope.

A backward glance in Avernus’s valley
left us these songs and ruined Eurydice.

Twice dead is dead; though hyacinths still bloom,
the rooks will leave their shadows on the moon.


EARLY AUTUMN 

A northern flicker 
kicking up small clouds 

of dust and needle duff
beneath the blue spruce 

in the yard. Some sparrows 
flit away from the lone 

land-foraging woodpecker.
I’ve seen the bird before,

I’d like to say, but it’s 
probably not the one

that drummed the soffit 
of our roof so many

mornings in a row 
a couple springs ago.


ANOTHER AUTUMN

That saw-whet owl in the boxwood
along the banks of Ecorse Creek.

Woodland sunflowers yellow above
the mud, their green leaves glistening

with water. October rain
has turned to October sun.

A culvert sings with run-off. I wonder 
if the built world will reclaim me.
Greek Mythology: Haemus and Rhodope turning into Mountains as they were punished by Zeus for calling themselves Zeus and Hera.
Greek Mythology: Eurydice dies of snakebite as she was about to be wed to her beloved Orpheus.
From Public Domain

Cal Freeman is the author of the books Fight Songs, Poolside at the Dearborn Inn, and The Weather of Our Names. He lives in Dearborn, MI, and teaches at Oakland University.

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