Beate Sigriddaughter  Debuts

ILLUSIONS

I.

They say it’s all illusion.

II.

One of my favorite illusions

has yellow eyes and climbs

over my legs to get to the best spot

in front of the fire in the otherwise cold

house. She voices things I cannot

understand. Sometimes we share

my swivel chair, which she firmly

believes is hers.

II.

When I was seven I nearly drowned.

I was so disappointed: “Was that all?”

It wasn’t. Here I am, giving thanks

for years and years of fear and enchantment,

tantrums and being breathlessly in love.

III.

This morning the sun sang up into the marble

sky. Birds whirred like arrows.

It is too cold for lizards now. This year

I had everything I ever wanted, plus

a few scorpions, and my unexpected

new love Orion, and lately

Castor and Pollux holding hands.

IV.

Perhaps I am drowning again, blessed

and never satisfied. Perhaps the longing

for more is the ceremony

of magnificent illusion.

 

Bio:

Beate Sigriddaughter, www.sigriddaughter.net, grew up in Nürnberg, Germany. Her playgrounds were a castle and World War II ruins. Now she lives in Silver City, New Mexico (Land of Enchantment) where she was poet laureate from 2017 – 2019. Her work has received multiple Pushcart Prize nominations and several poetry awards. She orchestrates the blog WritingIn A Woman’s Voice, where she publishes other women’s voices and awards a monthly prize.

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Joel Schueler Debuts

Unstill

I am the water carrier

polisher of burdens,

singing strong hymns of candour

I am the cored child seeking brutal temperance.

Cursed against the hymns are men becoming clocks.

Their echoes frowning faces of crystal waters while I hear,

not ever, an album more 

depressing

than Berlin, nor more crafted in its fatalist desolation, that

when they say it panned, I smell it 

stealthily creep, disposing its ashes in the hearts of the sad;

ashes

frozen from a subject undead, and how

it had to be that way.

People of a normal world do not take such a sting,

watching the homeless and the lowly ration

malady.

Voices of parallel universes discordantly meet,

men swig the air hoping for city dirt

mellow jazz enter! The eerie, sickening voices, crawling out tomorrow’s megaphone of

death.

‘Caroline Says II,’ ‘The Kids’ and ‘The Bed’ all wash like a threesome of colour dyed in melancholia.

The singer can barely get the words out he is so bored of life. The subject splashes

amidst wild perfumes, 

wailing whilst waltzing with druids by runic stones

her white sun 

crashes 

aside Alaska.

Bio:

Joel’s works are in nine countries in over thirty publications including Pennsylvania Literary Journal and The Brasilia Review. He is from London and has a BA(Hons) in English Literature & Creative Writing from the University of Wales, Aberystwyth. A zealous writer of music, lyrics, comedy and more.

joelschueler.com

instagram.com/joelschueler_writer

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John Grey

AN ACCIDENT FROM FIVE YEARS BACK

Huckaby Bridge,

at midnight,

seems to sway

though there’s no wind.

Maybe it takes a memory

to see the movement,

to go back to a time

when a hand-me-down Buick

rumbled across it

with a drunken boy at the wheel.

But even then it wasn’t swaying.

Not with yellow tape everywhere,

its guard rail shattered,

and a crane below,

pulling car and corpse

out of the muddy brown river.

Maybe I’ve got it wrong.

I’m the one

that does the swaying.

And the bridge is keeping still,

purely to compensate.

 

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Dianne Deloren

The Colors of My Anger

PART ONE:

There’s anger that’s a long, slow simmer

Like my crock pot making stew.

Stew, that’s a good word for it.

This kind of anger hides itself well.

It takes some time for me

To recognize what I’m angry about

Or who I’m angry with, and why. 

This anger I’d call brown, like stew,

Only I can tell when it’s done, only then can I digest it.

Then there’s impatience, an in-the-moment kind of anger

With a short fuse that ignites and burns out quickly

But not before some unkind words may be said

Either to myself or someone else. 

This anger is orange, like the glow of a match tip

For a brief second after you blow it out.

And what about frustration,

A seemingly milder form of anger

Yet insidious as it’s often lurking and not named.

It has deep roots in unmet needs, thwarted expectations,

Disappointment in life and in myself.

Frustration is a pervasive background color,

I’ll call it gray green, like the color of the Atlantic Ocean 

on an overcast day.

How about the explosive anger that catches you off guard

Because it connects to something so raw and real

That it gushes forth in a stream of words 

and gestures that stun the recipient 

(but it feels so darn good!)

In that moment I’m wholly connected to its source

And it feels necessary to express it

without being cruel or punishing,

The fine art of righteous anger, I call it.

This anger is red violet, the most repressed of all in me

(perhaps in all women?)

Because it feels so powerful, and yes, masculine,

a vital energy that when repressed

Turns in on myself, causing self-recrimination 

and depression,

Here’s a true story:

I had a boyfriend once who did a great service for me.

He triggered my anger so deeply that I would lash out

In a most vivid and alarming way.

But he didn’t take it personally,

In fact, he found it fascinating.

One time, he told me that I was so angry 

I actually levitated several inches off the ground!

(That’s what he said, I still smile when I recall it.)

But what a relief to dip into this deep, dark,

scary well of anger in me 

that I didn’t even know was there.

And to his credit, he stayed.

He said, “I seem to serve that purpose

for all my girlfriends.”

Blessings on you, dear sweet man, 

wherever you are.

You and your amazing sense of humor

That carried us through our quirky

And delicious time together.

I salute you and thank you

For bearing witness to the red violet 

part of my journey through anger.

PART TWO:

I’ll tell you where anger does not abide:

In the present, where peace and 

contentment largely rule,

Or in the way I feel aligned inside.

It’s a beast I can now recognize

When it rears one of its many heads.

Which is not to say that it doesn’t still

Catch me unawares from time to time,

Or make me say something I regret.

It’s a sly creature, anger is.

Relating to it ongoing

Takes courage, alertness and respect.

 

Dianne is an artist, writer and inspirational speaker living in Santa Fe,New Mexico.

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Paweł Markiewicz

Poemlet about philosophy. The dreamy manifesto.

It can convert red fire of the Spartacist Uprising into azure felicity of the philosophy

in feline eyes

something hoary is enforcing

an Egyptian glint

as if a pharaoh would

work magic the ontology

nature is able to conjure

effulgence of being in aesthetics

which likes daydreams

the ontology makes vestige

of an Erlking betimes

otherwhiles the logic becomes

moony – ensorcelled so propitious

such a fantasy

thus the logic becomes star

over Kant and us

the dream of bee-like being

like an angelic melancholy

charmed aesthetics

aestival ghosts are dancing

for the sake of kings of muses

the philosophy

is dreaming in summer of strenght

of logical fulfillment

Kant is singing along gingerly

of epistemology

the melancholia

is performing magic for ever and ever

with shininess of the logic

waft of the onthologies

is thereof entirely awoken

the air smells of

the Kants time of the eternity

 

Dear valued mellow quaint readers-dreamers!

At 5.30 pm the meek time has come with the dream-full inception, so that a new flimsy Sturm and Drang period has begun (the second Sturm and Drang, to wit: the turquoise time). And I am spellbound therefrom simply. Such an one fulfilled miracle with a starry charm of a magic-full summer night has enforced in some fantasy. Any best poem from me and any glimmer of the philosophy from me haven’t achieved that, but rather the most marvelous eyes of my cat such ghosts, in which the primeval ontologies of the antiquity slumbered in the lyrically Edenic way. The cat has looked at my dog plainly dulcet, what kindled a magical stark of time-philosophy and unveils spirit-like. These sparks aren’t able to be blazing fiercely like a handful of Luther’s flames, but they are glowing: tenderly as well as lovingly, in fine: muses-like as enchanted Apollonian moments, that touch deeply everybody’s souls and that cherish a daydreams-wizardry everlasting zeus-like. And this cat is such a dainty dreamy herder of the infinite angelic philosophy and those cats from time immemorial have harbored primeval weird from Egypt.

From cat’s eyes an eternity comes, which came along on my account at that early date At the moment i second era of Sturm and Drang is sparked, a primeval wild dream is freed and ready for the fantasy of the moon in the wonderful night.

Thee turquoise time – is sore contemporary created and alway internet-oriented. This melancholy-period comprises all poem in English from contemporary authors, who will write theirs most gorgeous poems from 1. July to 31. December 2019 and will publish them on sundry internet-pages.

Let this most gorgeous magic dream come true!

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Jeanette Cheezum

The Fisherman

The red morning sky told him to work fast.

He cast his net and cut the engine to an idle.

Children waited at home while stomachs

ached. Bills were due and oil was low.

Gulls gathered above the net, his senses

quickened as he pulled the clumsy load. 

There would be food on the table and pocket money.

Pride and strength returned on high tide.

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Harris Tobais

Otto

They called him Otto, the great desperado,

But really he wasn’t that great

He would ride into town

Turn lives upside down

But the town’s population was eight

There was Nelle, the town belle,

And bartender Zelle

And a couple of children named Fred

Bea, the school teacher, and Lee, the town’s preacher

And a store keeper couple named Zed

Bea, the school marm, 

Would sound the alarm

When Otto rode down from the hills

The Freds and the Zeds would hide under their beds

Giggling from fear induced thrills

Otto would shoot in the air, 

Give all a good scare,

Then he’d ride off as fast as he came

He’d holler and yell and raise all kinds of hell

To him it was all a big game

Though he was called Otto, 

The Great Desperado,

It was said with tongue firmly in cheek.

For though he looked mean and acted extreme

In reality Otto was meek

He lived in a shack

Somewhere out back

And spent his days largely ignored

But then just for fun he’d pick up his gun

Simply because he was bored

One day sheriff John Brown

Rode into town

And announced that he was the law

The Zeds and the Freds all nodded their heads

And said, “That’s what we pay taxes for.”

When Otto rode down

From the hills into town

The Sheriff was waiting, guns drawn

Hand over your gun it’s an end to your fun

This behavior cannot go on

Otto was stunned

Whatever he’d gunned

Was nothing more than celebration

His shots in the air were devil make care

No threats or intimidation

Once faced with the law

Old Otto saw

That his fun was being suspended

He thought why not and fired one final shot

And here my tale is upended

John Brown got mad

And said that he’d had

Quite enough of someone like Otto

So he shot him, of course, right off his horse

Shoot first, that was his motto

Now the folks in the town

All gathered around

And accused the Sheriff of police brutality

What have you done? Shot a man having fun

That’s not how we show hospitality

The whole town was shocked

And the sheriff was mocked

They told him to pack up and leave

He left in a hurry while Otto was buried

And preacher Lee led the bereaved

Nelle and Zell 

tolled the school bell

And bid old Otto goodbye

The Freds and the Zeds just shook their heads

And wondered why he had to di

 

Some stories

My books 

My Blog

 

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