Friday, May 6, 2016

Hannah Scarlet- Three Poems

Hannah Scarlet studies writing.  She lives in Georgia with a five-year-old and an angry cat.

Long Timer

they told me
I was not a long timer
that I would be out
the door

as the wooden
slat closes behind
as I take my last walk

I have to agree.

From Scratch

I made you a gift
from scratch
scraped from the back
of my consciousness

it's a bit of my past
mingled with the present
it can even be
a future promise for you.

Blind Spots

he was one of my blind
spots, accosting
me on a blank canvas
kind of day

he came out of my
periphery, suddenly
too clear to be real.

Marites Escarlote Gueta- A Poem

Catching A Fox in Winter

I saw a lonely brown Fox
In the hazy distance
Between the greenery of trees
Hopping crest to crest.
My eyes dapple in his
Catch for a chest in my
Shiraz alabaster box.
Oh feign i, believing 'twas
A dream!
Oh just a snow woman am i!
Outside in the winter cold.

By : Marites Escarlote Gueta
       San Jose , Antique , Philippines

JD DeHart- Three Poems

JD DeHart is a writer and teacher.  His chapbook, The Truth About Snails, is available from RedDashboard.

Alligator in a Suit

There he stands, the pristine
scaled skin glowing in the sun,
the flat mouth opening and closing,

rows and rows of teeth,
molar cufflinks, and a killer
smile while he does his daily work.

Long Flowing Locks

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel,
let down your hair,” he said,
but this was no fairy tale,

there was no castle, only
a sawed off in the hands of
an angry future father-in-law,

a rusted truck in a grassy front
yard, and a Southern drawl
coming from queenly lips.


As a catch the creature
sliding on my plate, I note
those around me who

move their jaws in the slow
rhythm of the field,

who watch me dig in to 
sinew and bone with a look
of disdain only found

in some restaurants.

Sunil Sharma- A Poem


Images are coxed out
of reluctant words
sometimes gently; sometimes forced.
then they  get washed and spruced up
strung up like a----------------Or,
in a vertical order by a writing hand.
some call it poetics; some creative process
of ads,
ways of arranging/looking at the world a-new.

Words often act as the grim-faced colonial gaolers
refusing to part with the radicals under their custody
but when cracked by a saboteur… powerful images flow up like CO2
out of soda cans that are opened for special guests
in the middle-class Indian homes.

Bio: Sunil Sharma is a writer based in Mumbai, India.He has published four books of poetry, two books of shorts and a novel in English,apart from co editing six literary anthologies.

Roger Still- Three Poems

Chore Woman

she’s a figure in rags
who holds the house together
arms stretched around
this world we hold dear
she’s the one
who held us together
in raging flood night
and cooled the licking
flames of destroyers
the one we never
noticed or spoke to
or regarded
as a mortal being.

A Horror Poem About Words

Beware the word
with its hidden
sinister violence
Beware the suggestion
the utterance
the manipulative syllable
A site of language
production, blocks and
shards of meaning
falling from the sky
threatening to bash us.


He's a cowardly mouse
who hides behind
everything, until finally
he finds that inner strength,
discovers he knows
how to use an axe (!)
and then overtakes
the small universe
inside the wall.

Roger Still has been published at Poetry Super Highway, among other sites.

Ananya S. Guha- A Poem

You Goddess

I wash hands
sin is never washing 
away. I wash hands simply to 
see a shaft of light. A little glimpse
of the aftermath of sins.
It takes a long time cleansing 
hands muddied with the soil 
of the earth, an uncanny earth
despoiled. So I wash hands
use it also to smother dreams 
of other people. not lives.
only dreams. cleansing radiates 
living. makes things less stark.
a bit more noble, but magnanimity 
eludes life, my life.

I cleanse water of shores
sullied with your washed 
away hair, eyes.
you Goddess. 

Ananya S Guha
Shillong, INDIA.

Thursday, May 5, 2016

David J. Thompson- A Photo

                                        "Trees, New Mexico"

Namrata Pathak- A Poem

For you, Shahid

On the lids and buds
a dance of love, a fleet of shadows
a sway, a lurch in the porch
hands two cubes of sound, eyes poppy-words
then silence of the highways, shacks, bullets
and death. Fractured. Split. Gone.
that is how a poem dies, Shahid
with you, with me, with us
these days nothing else matters, everything else is dead
death in the teacups, on rows of desire
on that tap on the collar bone, in layers of faces you put on
while you thumb the moon down into tin-sheets
and become a poet.

Death is only a colour, Shahid
blue is white now and red is black
the head grows stubs and then chrysanthemums
they thrust out in a bunch, the stems, the flakes, the smell, all
In profusion. Like death.
ghazals stand still in leaf-faces
the frangipani a scowl of a woman
love a mirrored-angle, upside-down
right is left, and you a reflection
framed, non-living
yet every night you flow by my window
melt my bones and feet
in that rain in my head
Hairlines. Rays. Spray.
See, the rain becomes light
and we are one tongue, one verse again.

Tonight I am not in love with you, Shahid
this is all I want you to know
I see you dying
in chipped corners, old almirahs,
fossils, touch folded in old clothes,
neem-laced histories, you are everywhere
dying as young twirls
on pods of green
standing heavy
bent in arcs
over yesterday's mowed soil.
Wasted. Nubile. Glassy.

You take that forked path
in a paddy-leap, verbing air
till the words are tilled
into mounds, and you are a poem again.

One day I would outgrow you
the roots would rise their fangs
stick their tongues out
in iron-bricked moments
and you would be a tree.

That touch would be sound one day
that death would twitch
the pavements
in a winnowed dusk, nobody knew
till your groaning grains tassel the air
in webs and planes.

The pale buildings turn
to the succulent mouths
biting the edge
of the lined sky
and it rains. It rains for you. It rains for me
It rains for us, Shahid.

When death sneaks into sleepy airports
the sky is pieced into lilac-halves, semi-circles
the wet gravel turns within
to suck the sky, and you.

Shops pickled by salt and light
split open a dry day.

Poetry, weather-beaten
nails death
in a watery alphabet.

As the rain looks within
retracts the rust
of your cells
the green bleeds red.
Death is only a colour. I told you.
Shahid, do I write you still?

(Brief note on the author: She teaches in N.E.H.U and loves life, words, the hills and the wind.)

HR Creel- Three Poems


There is no repair
for the broken machine
in me.  
What does a person
do with this truth?
To know that the road
is ending.
To know that each step
creates a print
that may be final.
They pump me with
serums, but I am not so
easily saved.


He hates the
word because it reminds
of hand-holding, voices
in chorus.
The isolationist in him
does not care for 
what some consider
So he tucks himself
far away.

Reluctant Recipients

I carry a gift
they do not want.
I offer it and they scoff.
I write
while they look on
with rolling eyes
face full of disdain.

Melanie Browne- A Poem

Writing my Way out of a Paper Bag

I am writing my way
out of a paper bag,
a regular one,
about 12*7*17 using
mostly a stream-of 
from my
dream diaries,
or boring stuff
I heard in a 
nail salon,
a little girl 
telling her brother
he smelled like onions
and that same little 
girl's mamma said to
the nail technician
that her daughter 
was spoiled to the
finer things in life,
I am writing my
way out of a paper
bag, and I'm nearly 
to the top,
so I'll finish by 
telling you about
the high school bus
driver who never spoke
to me, even though
it was just her
& I for miles