THE POETRY OF BRUCE MCRAE

The Poetry of Bruce McRae
BIO:

Originally from Niagara Falls Ontario, Pushcart-nominee Bruce McRae is
a musician who has spent much of his life in London and British Columbia.
He has been published in hundreds of periodicals and anthologies. His first
book, ‘The So-Called Sonnets’ is available from the Silenced Press website
or via Amazon books. To hear his music and view more poems visit his
website: www.bpmcrae.com.

Cometh The Hour

Can’t you sense it, son of a bitch?

Something is coming over the fields.

Something approaches us on its stomach.

Some say it’s winter, or an army of snow.

Some suggest a muted messenger.

Everyone nods when death is mentioned.

It’s marching out of the seventh level,

dragging a chain, a bad foot, a giant’s head.

It flies from out the valleys of reason,

my sweetest demons prattling in their beds,

all my soft monsters despairing,

the sun blighted, the air scoured.

But it’s only the rain, an optimist declares.

Schools darken, our churches condemned.

It’s only the plague of our indifference.

The Spider Says

I’m familiar with apprehension,

aware of doubt, sympathetic to terror.

Consider me a patient knot in a thread,

a little stone calling to the dark of the world,

the multi-eyed beast in her sullen quarter;

she who is tethered to a latch or a hair.

The spider says Sweet fly, sweetmeat,

think me the wraith to your gummy end,

my door invitingly ajar, the table always set.

And these are my babies, my thousands,

so curious, so ravenous, nimble copies

of copies, sentient pebbles fleeing hunger’s edge.

It is they, era-perfect, who scurry.

I set them loose upon the edible earth.

Eventide

One of those evenings the dog slips its leash.

Tree branches scarring a yellow moon.

The saucy stars conspiring.

One of those evenings peace officers loathe.

The mad resigned to their fate.

A drunkard lost in his bedroom.

Civilization’s smoke rising over the rooftops,

as if gravity had given up on us

and our slow blue world.

A page turns in a family bible.

In the harbour is a sloop named Solitude.

And the black bat, resuming its lifelong journey —

a traveler come to the country of night.

As if such things were worthy of a mention.

THE POETRY OF PIJUSH KANTI DEB

The Poetry of Pijush Kanti Deb
BIO:

Achievement- 66 poems and haiku are accepted or published by Indian and international publishers since June 2013,.they are, Tajmahal review, Camel Saloon Blog Spot, E-pao.Net, Dead Snake Blog Spot, Down in the Dirt, Poetic Monthly Magazine, Poems and Poetry Blog Spot, Poetry 24 Blog Spot, Long Story Short , Gean Tree Haiku Journal, My Word Wizard, and A Handful of Stones , Kalkion, ,Verse Engine and The Apple Tree.

An instance of divinity

Divinity –an unanswered inquisitiveness-

makes a theist mad in quest of a little hint

or an instance of extra-ordinary feature,

capable of resolving the mystery of existence

of a power- supernatural and super-normal,

building a faith to surrender everything-

pains and gains, to His safe-custody.

Indeed, cuckoo sings always in the flock of crows

and the record of common incidences may be added

and embellished by a celestial incident

as the amazing incident of a Vietnamese citizen,

compelling the atheists to stand in front of mirror.

A poor Vietnamese citizen---

a victim of self devastative civil war,

an ill-lucky witness of the merciless killing

of his own beautiful wife and affectionate sons,

sneaked to the depth of the nearest jungle

along with his one year old baby son

and disappeared therein mysteriously .

The stony world remained busy

in moving towards selfish destination

and the tragedy of the Vietnamese citizen

and the others were simply forgotten.

Nevertheless, fantastic was the God’s wish,

as the Vietnamese was rescued along with his son alive

after passing of long forty years, wherein

human- surviving, indeed, seemed to be impossible,

yet they were found safe and sound,

as a miraculous power guarded and saved their lives.

Soul-blooming incidence it is for mankind,

quite influential and inspirational miracle-

as an atheist witnesses, perceives and realises

the presence of divinity- a super power and the roll -

it plays in each and every moment of our lives

and bows down to his super-natural power.

It is just another coating of paint,

embellishing the universal belief of a God fearing

‘’Never be killed who is saved by God

And never be saved who is killed by God’’.

 

Go To Hell

The shameless face of yours

ought not to face that of mine

as irritating it is now to my open eyes,

scaring to my broken heart

and disturbing to my weak soul.

Let your lips be refrained from

uttering the common words to me,

‘’I love you’’,

as just before entering the Hell,

I perceive the injurious destination

of your tom boy’s game of love.

Indeed, a fucking machine you are-

nothing more than that

except an owner of animal- instincts.

Your lustful scanning eyes are monotonous

to my juicy lips and eyes,

senseless to my tits and curves

and worthless to my pussy and so on.

But unmindful you are to my

melodious tune- reverberated inside my lips,

a colourful dreamland-

built beneath my blue eyes,

an emotional young heart

beneath my bashful breasts

and soft and sweet offspring of tomorrow

beneath my pussy.

Ought not to blow hot air in my ear

and expect lascivious expansion

of my limbs favourable to you

in meeting your lustful passion,

In the name of

and for the sake of so-called love.

Now I am quite cautious and contracted too

to your desirous longing for swimming

on my sacred lake of love,

well recognized you are-

an Imp- a disciple of the Devil,

hence, leave me alone and go to Hell.

My Girl Friend

Tumultuous was the last evening,

my vital life was cheerful in obtaining

seventeen candles only to put off,

A bunch of hilarious hearts to add to

the garland of my sweet memory

and a silent and surprising

beckon of an enchanting pair of eyes-

belonged to my girl friend –Pamela,

my best friend , not more than that.

A babbler she has been in general

but mysteriously mum she was in that evening

as something wrong in the ongoing party.

Hence my obligation was instant

to take her in a lonely and dark corner,

circumscribed her affectionately with

some formal questions relating to her

unprecedented role in the party,

but my inquisitiveness was unanswered.

A tiny smile appeared on her lips

and made me happy to push her to the hall

where all were quite blissful in dancing.

‘’W-a-i-t’’ her lips trembled but uttered,

she took my hand in her shivering hand

and looked at the floor

where she was engraving an unknown picture

on the tiles with her pointed shoe.

My second round of inquisitiveness

rushed to her,

made her lips quivering

and at last opened these up to pronounce

three most popular words

‘’I love You’’ by embracing me.

Surprised I was to her unexpected change,

amazed at wave of her pleasant emotion-

that had been bubbling up from her heart to lips,

made her different throughout the evening

and gifted me a beautiful tomorrow too.

Ensnared I was finally to admit her love

with a passionate kiss on her juicy lips.

THE POETRY OF JASON CONSTANTINE FORD

The Poetry of Jason Constantine Ford
BIO:

Jason Constantine Ford is from Perth in Australia. He works as an employee at a book shop. He has over fifteen years of experience in studying various styles of poetry. The major influences on his style of poetry are William Blake, Edgar Alan Poe and Gerard Manley Hopkins. Blake’s ability to address the social issues of his time through poetry and painting has had a lasting impact upon Jason’s early years. For correspondence, contact Jason at jasonconstantineford@gmail.com

Death in the Woods

The taste of many brittle years already spread
Across paddocks without a drop of rain
Is bitterness profound as Death begins to tread
Upon the graves of names which still remain.
Death is slowly passing through the woods alone
With many kinds of trees becoming prone
To loss of grip among the aging leaves
Succumbing to the might which Death receives.
The air surrounding Death becomes so strong
As winds impose a sense of might upon each tree.
The branches shaking left and right, belong
To the dance of Death declaring how all things should be.
The curse which came upon the ones who died
With wounds inflicted by the sword of pride
Is kept beneath the ground until the day
Death decides to spread to other forms of prey.

 

Thoughts Following a Storm

After the raging storm has calmed unto a state

Where I am standing safe, secure, away from harm,

The waves are tamed with gentleness which I equate

With soothing scent of nard and feel of healing balm.

Although the waves no longer crash against the shore

With power that exceeds the strength of many hands,

Fragments of intellect of mine remain unsure

Concerning matters that I fail to understand.

Shall raging storm return as coming back to life

And spread a trail of fear among a people blind?

Am I a dreamer who attempts to think of strife

Which only seems to breath inside my mind?

 A Path into the Raging Water

Despite the depths of raging sea

And troubles vast, a man embarks

Upon a quest without the company

Of tools which ward away the sharks.

He starts his quest with tool of steel

Inside a loincloth that prepares to deal

With countless waves arising high

Above the height of watchful eye.

With only loincloth and a simple blade,

The man of strength is diving straight

Into the depths of dangers now displayed

As raging waters that cannot abate.

Although he swims the depths as one alone

With tender muscle that surrounds each bone,

The dangers that confront his chosen goal

Cannot remove his lasting strength of soul.

Eclipse at the Gates

Denial walks from place to place

Without a sense of grave disgrace

From keeping lips which never talk.

The men renowned for hiding face

With veils denying any trace

Of what is real, begin to walk.

A book of lies is being carried

Upon the backs of men married

To form of creed which oscillates.

Shadows are passing through the street

With steps which now complete

The final stage of reaching gates.

THE POETRY OF CHRIS ROZIK

The Poetry of Chris Rozik

Highway Safety

To the cracks in the floorboard:
The silence in the air,
My rooms shrine to alcohol,
And the stale beer stench,
Stop.



To the loose lipped, ship sinking, chatty Cathys,
That spew judgment as if they learned tolerance
On the side of a cereal box, and, half asleep, forgot it.
Hoping that by talking, no one will talk about them.
Stop.



To the sister I never had;
Leave D.C. and cocaine
Your potential blows mine out of the water,
And it can't just be that you just wanted a big splash.
Stop.



I would love to know the word stop.
Because there are some times,
Where I have the mind running at 100 miles per hour.
Radio blaring,
Windows up,
Eyes fixed straight ahead.
Fellow drivers beware:
There are times I can't see anything except the road ahead.

There are times I don't know when to stop.

Sleepwalking

I play music because I love stagelight sweat.
I do it for your hips.
Because after a week of sitting in front of computer,
or whatever you sit in front,
you deserve a chiropractor.
Unfortunately for you,
My hands are a lot louder than a doctors.
But I can tell you,
that I spend just as much time trying to perfect an art.
Perfect and art however,
do not belong in the same sentence.



I play guitar and yell into PA's late at night,
while my parents sleep.
They know it,
and thank god it helps them sleep.

Dirty Socks

Regardless of the amount of socks I buy,
I'll only ever see roughly five pairs.
And if losing little black socks were a job,
I'd be the CEO over there.



They get lost under papers I never read,
Winter jackets I didn't pack away,
A shoe rack I don't use,
And a couch you don't want to sit on.



Socks, like life lessons and love songs,
Have a tendency of getting lost from time to time.

Stormy Young Men

I haven't had the luxury of an umbrella since the good old days.
My folks seem to remember things like that.



When I bought it,
the old old lady who hangs around told me
she offered a young man,
so soaking wet,
her umbrella,
but he couldn't hear her.



I wanted to tell her
When a young man is in a storm,
Without an umbrella,
the last thing he's listening for is a sweet old lady.

Noisy Sundays

Heaven,
Seems too bright for me.
The white clouds, the angels, the trumpets,
Seems a bit much to wake up to.
Especially, on a Sunday.
And if St.Peter is God's bouncer,
For eternity,
By now he's the patron saint of judgmental tough guys.



Heaven,
God's big mansion,
Six star suite in the sky,
I get it,
It's the best.
But when I die,
Please,
just let me rest.

POETRY OF KORI CHEEK

The poetry of Kori Cheek:

Bio: 
Kori Cheek have been writing since i was 16 with a special love toward poetry.  I found poetry a good way to vent during those awkward teenage years and am still writing to this day.  I have written just over 2,500 poems in my life and plan to keep writing until i run out of things to say.  I write to encourage, inspire and make people think.  We change the world one person at a time and I feel like that if someone comes out a better person for having read my work than that's what it's all about. 

(Editor's note): The poems published are but a sample from Kori Cheek collection called "Give Peace a Chance".

For Me

Beg for me – plead for me

Grieve for me- scream for me

Reach for me- believe for me

Cry for me – breathe for me

Try for me – pray for me

Laugh for me – love for me

Speak for me - be for me

Live for me - die for me

Be everything that that I’ll ever need

And when you’ve done that you can have all of me

 

Revolution

A revolution is stirring in the world today

People are gathering and beginning to pray

The blood of the martyrs has come before God

Killing the prophets is mankind’s song

Those that are sent are mistreated and abused

The exploitation of them is all over the news

The priests and the monks weep bitter tears

And our Lady of Lourdes is shackled with fears

The earth begins to tremble at the sounding of the noise

Violence erupts and suddenly is heard the voice

Of one who is crying alone in the dark

Neglected and abandoned – simply humanity’s heart

The Savior breaks through with the sounding of a blast

The war has finally ended and so peace has come at last

 Nnocence

There exists in the mind of a child

The hope and innocence lost in surviving

The maddening streets where people conform

To hate and greed – adulthood is born

New to this world the child only laughs

Darkness and pain are not known to them yet

They bring only sunshine and light unto all

The world that they know until the corruption of walls

Are built around their heart – now they know masks

Covering up heartache – painting faces that will last

Until they learn to regress to that state

Of sublime understanding…new life that awaits

Worthwhile

Eagerly awaiting a day of peace

To fall upon the earth and all of humanity

I sit and pretend that it’s already here

My make-believe world is visually clear

I see it all around me in the flowers and the trees

I see it in the wind that whispers through the leaves

I see it in the eyes of a stranger passing by

And I see it in the innocence of a fluttering butterfly

I see it in the birds and the sun that shines bright

I see it in the clouds hanging in the blue sky

I see it in the little puppies that play

Casually romping and wasting days away

I see it in the moon when it comes out at night

And I see it in the stars as they sparkle - shedding light

I see it in the face of a smiling little child

And so I will wait for when it come’s it will be worthwhile

It Can’t Wait

Rage is hidden by a mask that is painted with smiles and love

Laughter blocks out what I’m after – mainly the understanding of

Upper class parents who don’t even bother to notice the fact that I’m down

Left to wallow in my own self-pity – I come home to an empty house

I need to talk just to get it all out but they tell me to wait till tomorrow

They tell me that they don’t have the time – the truth is their chasing the “dollar”

They are too busy chasing the “American Dream” with all its wealth and power

To give a care-less that I am depressed and perhaps don’t have a “tomorrow”

 Segregated Earth

Separation begins with the color of skin

At least that’s what society says time and again

The media stirs up racial dissension

In place of unification there’s nothing but tension

If we were united we would rule undivided

But that can never happen for we are all still buying

The garbage and trash that infiltrates our brains

Brings nothing but division where love and harmony should reign

Someday the truth will cut through the lies

And when that day comes we will all be color blind

But until then we will continue to search

For a way to keep peace on a segregated earth