Monday, April 21, 2014

Richard Schnap- A Poem


Grey cinderblocks
With the penciled scrawls
Of local gangs

A half-hidden toilet
To remind the accused
Privacy was a privilege

Hard metal benches
As cold as ice
Making sleep a dream

And lights always on
So that time itself
Ceased to exist

Ayaz Daryl Nielsen- Three Haiku

someone feels the night
bare autumn moon as the sea
quietly watches

bulldog puppies
faces like aging tugboats
nudge their momma

on the branches 
   above this flat tire
      crows being crow

ayaz daryl nielsen, husband, father, veteran, x-roughneck (as on oil rigs) and hospice nurse, editor of bear creek haiku (24+ years/118+ issues), poetry’s homes include Lilliput Review, The Stray Branch, Verse Wisconsin, Shamrock, Kind of a Hurricane, Shemom, has earned cherished awards and participated in worthy anthologies - poetry ensembles include Concentric Penumbra’s of the Heart and Tumbleweeds Still Tumbling, and, in 2013, released an anthology The Poet’s of Bear Creek - beloved wife/poet Judith Partin-Nielsen, and! (translates as joie de vivre)

Brittany Zedalis- A Poem

Hushed Whispers

silence intricate observations
          melt away into a steady heartbeat
  words like woven promises beneath a broken sky
              whispers suppressed by eyes of gold
discarded obligations for this brief moment
           sink into quiescent bliss 

Brittany Zedalis is a 21 year old college senior, who is studying to be an elementary teacher. She has been writing poetry since middle school, and plans to publish a book of poetry one day. She has a poetry blog at:

Theresa A. Cancro- Two Poems


Sun limns lifetimes
like blossoms of the field,
flowers pressed between
tome hours, evidence
we stole the light,
that small shining hope
now bright
in old eyes.

I won't face the grim.
Tell me lies, delay
the final hour.
I'll turn from darkness
as time kernels crowd,
I'll slather sweet
salve to ease the pain
of dying.


Frustration has settled its spurs
in my mind.  Kicks never work.
Let it slide off the side
of anger, mountain to scale,
or ride by.

The power to turn on a dime
slows, friction drags.
No, I cannot see
through the seconds in between.
The down beat closes a valve,
shuts me out.

The bruised clock on the mantel
reeks of spurious minutes,
cranks its gears to chime
a mockery in my ear
of how I've left my life

Bio:  Theresa A. Cancro (Wilmington, Delaware  USA) writes poetry and fiction.  Her poetry has been published or is forthcoming in print and at online sites, including Three Line Poetry, Napalm and Novocain, Jellyfish Whispers, Kumquat Poetry, The Rainbow Journal, The Artistic Muse: Poehemians, Stormcloud Poets Anthology, A Handful of Stones, A Hundred Gourds, tinywords, Cattails, Chrysanthemum, and Shamrock Haiku Journal.

Jonel Abellanosa- Two Poems

To My Tooth
I wondered why you were so sensitive
To the hot and the cold.  I probed, feeling
No prick.  No matter how much I peered
No hole reflected, enamel yellowed
But the crown intact. 
X-ray showed cavity hidden proximally,
Concealed by another tooth.  The doctor worried
Over blood pressure, blood sugar,
Prothrombin, bleeding and clotting times
But chronic ache makes anyone say anything.
I keep you wrapped in a blood-smeared white cloth.
I might eat comfortably and sleep soundlessly again
But you’ll remind me how expertly pain carved
Your side, how it fooled toothpicks, the mirror,
My linear, see-to-believe mind. 
Mind and Body
The uphill climb circulates strength:
Pedals, front and rear derailleur
Conveying chain energy honing
Through sprocket wheel and cluster,
Tension and jockey roller, recycling.
Downhill, speed lifts weight to the wind
Carrying these health worries away,
Light-whiting heat sweeping the eye’s ways. 
Rush humming my skin, blue
Sky whispering, comet, kin.
Short Bio: Jonel Abellanosa resides in Cebu City, the Philippines.  His poetry is forthcoming in Anglican Theological Review, Pyrokinection, Ancient Paths, Inkscrawl, and has appeared in Windhover, The Lyric, PEN Peace Mindanao anthology, Star*Line, Liquid Imagination, Mobius Journal of Social Change, Inwood Indiana Press, Jellyfish Whispers, Golden Lantern, Poetry Quarterly, New Verse News, Qarrtsiluni, Anak Sastra: Stories for Southeast Asia, Fox Chase Review, Burning Word, Barefoot Review, Red River Review, Philippines Free Press, Philippine Graphic.  He is working on his first poetry collection, Multiverse.

Saturday, April 19, 2014

Richard Schnap- Three Poems


When I was a child
I once read somewhere
That the ancients believed
All things hold a spirit

And sometimes it seems
In my darkest of hours
I can hear them speaking
Like a comforting friend

When the wind softly whispers
“Don’t be afraid”
And the rain sharply counsels
“You’re not alone”

And the sea slowly murmurs
“Try to forget”
And the earth sweetly urges
“This too will pass”


There’s a diamond in your heart
Its brilliance buried in shadows
From ten thousand lonely nights

And there’s a rose in your soul
Caught in a web of weeds
Nourished by a poisoned river

And there’s a star in your gut
Stuck in a black cage
For a gawking realm of mannequins

And there’s a child in your mind
Who has dreams that never end
Telling of the end of dreams


A last goodbye, a final embrace.
A eulogised kiss at the funeral

Of love. A sanctified bed, a coffin,
A grave. Lined with white silk,

White lilies, white tears. A letter,
An obituary. A valentine, an epitaph.

A passion cremated and scattered
In the wind. A passage of time,

A slow forgetting. A weathered
Memory that haunts me no more.

Jonathan Beale- A Poem

When rain dances

The rain danced on the windscreen.
As each a diamond -
Smashing forth…,
into a million, billion, quintillion new lives!
New lives in old -
The poet sits like a poor Christian waiting in a brittle silence,
A dove, a Jew in a gentile town looking for gold in the drenched gutter -
The misty image of the past, there, and yet fragmented in the now…
in the freshly revealed….Now.

After the last breath, leaves.
Nothing remains.
Just air, water, fire, earth.  Then.
Nothing remains –
No hope - no optimism – no regrets
Nothing remains  

First appeared in The Screech Owl.

Shaquana Adams- A Poem

Silence Me

They tried to silence me
And change the fact that I am free.
Lock my lips and throw away the key
That is what they want to do to me.

My words aren't poetry they say
Called it immature child’s play.
Said my emotions were not real
How are they going to tell me how I feel?

When I was writing in my journal
All the emotions that were internal
Came out gushing not like rain
From all of my secluded pain

So I did the only thing I could at
Three o clock in the morning.
I wrote until my pen ran dry
Or until I hit the pillow snoring.

Let me just make this clear
For all the people who will not cheer
Because they think I write about lies
But who have never seen through my eyes.

No I will not shut my lips
Nor take the pen from the paper
Nor will I let your stupid shit
Stop me from being a creator.

If you can’t handle what I spit
Feel free to get up and walk away.
Because entrapment is the last thing I’ll permit.
Not tomorrow, not today!

Shaquana Adams is an internationally published poet with a fondness for the color purple. She is quiet on the outside but goofy on the inside and writes because the best thing about writing is that she can say what she needs to say. It is an awesome experience.

Paul Tristram- Three Poems

Rainbow Bridge

Slumped in the shadows
beneath Rainbow Bridge.
She picked at a fresh scab
upon her hidden left wrist
wishing and willing
the irritating colours
around herself to be gone.

It Was His OCD That Killed Him

Well, that and the big red double decker bus!

He had a sneaking suspicion
that he was in trouble that morning.
For half an hour earlier he had seen
one of those foam take away chip trays.
Upside down and insultingly staring
at him from the gutter on Stockems Corner.
He had tried to jump upon it,
to put an end to its perfect white arrogance.
But a sudden gust of wind from The Melyn
blew it across the road over to the island
where two of his ex’s live.
He was not going to tempt fate
and mix bad luck up with karma
so he reluctantly let the annoying thing go free.
Bad mistake and decision making, obviously.
On his way back home he spat his chewing gum
over his left shoulder at the 3rd drain and missed.
To his horror he watched it land
upon the unforgiving tarmac a centimetre away
from the drain containing happiness
blessing and all sorts of assorted good luck.
He instantly spun around 7 times on the spot
and stepped back backwards out into the road.
And that was that, he died instantly!
It was his OCD that killed him.
It was his OCD that killed him.
Yes, It was his OCD that killed him

Writing Under The Influence Of Life
It is a strange thing
to observe and witness
all of this un-glorious living madness.
The daily carnival of the absurd.
People fighting tooth and nail
for things that they do not really need
and which often times do not matter.
Stepping on toes, jumping queues
elbowing people out of the way
at the bargain section.
Arguing over shopping trolleys
and parking spaces
and let us not forget
the Nation’s favourite sport
of Road Rage, Yippee!
Nearly losing an eye
outside the post office
by anxious and frightened
umbrella wielding old ladies.
Being attacked and McAssaulted
outside of Burger Kings in city centres
by gangs of seagulls
(Yes, the creatures I used to watch
on David Attenborough programmes.
Their names give away exactly
where they should be!)
There’s a smoking ban in pubs
and it is illegal to smoke standing
in a one sided bus stop?
I’m tired of being stopped
and pocket searched
for being in a burglary hotspot
after dark.
“But it’s January in the UK
so it’s always dark,
I live on this street
and I’m walking my dog.
Officer, cast your gaze downwards
see, dog on a lead!)
There are 2fas
on White Lightning Cider
but you need to take out a loan
to buy Real Ale.
The margarine that reduces cholesterol
is close to £5
whilst the crap that’s bad for you
hasn’t been banned
it’s selling for a mere 50 pence?
You need a TV license
if you have no TV but you do have
a mobile phone.
All of this before you actually get
into the seedier side of life
with the Pimps, Prostitutes,
Pederasts, Rapists, Murderers,
Drug Dealers, Arsonists, Muggers,
Terrorists, Wars, Diseases, Famine,
Genocide, Global Warming
and all of the many other
Man Made and Environmental Disasters.
There is absolutely no wonder
that there are Heroin Addicts out there.
Crack Heads, Speed Freaks, Alcoholics
and all the other assorted Weirdo’s.
That the Prisons, Mental Institutions,
Rehab Centres, Homeless Hostels,
Park Benches and Cemetery’s are full.
No, what is surprizing
is that there isn’t more of it out there.
But hey, you do not need
to be Clairvoyant to see that coming,
Do you now?


Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.

Friday, April 18, 2014

Douglas Polk- Two Poems

The Game of Politics

Obama fixated on the need to divide and conquer,
sets the poor against the rich,
women against men,
and even black against white,
Americans all,
while Putin plays the world,
in Syria and Ukraine,
a chess game,
the skill level impressive,
where oh where,
is Bobby Fischer,
in this hour of need.
The President Organizer

a community organizer,
knowing only how to organize division,
not seeking peace or unity,
but only power,
taken instead of shared,
the communities serviced,
selected with care,
people inexperienced,
ignorant of the consequences,
the organization of division will bring.