Works from Poetry Friends…
I am proud to introduce poetry from some incredible writing friends. The authors are listed alphabetically, as to show no favoritism, because they are each unique and worthy poets. I can’t thank them enough for sharing their work.
Clare Glynn Chitan (Glynn Sinclare)
Michael G. Hickey
Pamela Hobart Carter
Michael Lee Johnson
Jenny Ni Ruiseil
Ann Christine Tabaka
Please scroll down to find each poet’s work in alphabetical order:
Sing Softly, by Keith Barnard
And the sound
Of the serene
To the heart.
Another Poem by Keith Barnard
In a Lovecraftian dream one may superimpose a concept based upon eldritched ambiguities as if travelling beyond the realms of existence will eradicate the primeval presence at the edge of the universe waiting for the magic Tome to enhance the old Gods we may reside at peculiar gabled garrets where the meanest slopes will propel our spirits to yet unknown Netherworlds relating tales of unknown chaotic masterpieces throughout a sublime esoteric but it is just this flirtation with the “ultra – voids” which may carry us all far away from the sheer boredom of conformity through portals of ” liquid – crystal – colour” over extraordinarily gorgeous “multi – angularised” walkways stretched beyond infinity will inevitably find oneself traversing the “upper – dimensional” chromaticism of extreme tautness over interspersed causeways with such grandiosity as to reveal the facets of every mighty plane at least as overlocking an amazing landscopic size throughout vibrational facets of beauty ever to be looked upon as we all strive on climbing ever higher upon the upper realms reaching as far as we can possibly manage to never look down but always uplifting to the eternal magnificent power of our own truest Godhead.
Keith Barnard is a prolific composer, also dedicated to exploring the relation between music, colour and healing.
He resides in London, and is also a poet.
Keith’s Websites for composing and poetry: http://keithbarnard.com/home-2/, https://www.facebook.com/Barnardmusicandpoems/
Colour Harmoies, by Keith Barnard, part 5: https://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.soundcloud.com%2Flawrenceball%2Fcolour-harmonies-part-5%3Ffbclid%3DIwAR1yI3l77tfkizyyKjb_PU7U-PbHeMjwvCc9OeC2BtsuH0UXB0YaIzVZcYQ&h=AT2R9efjU3-vEhvqjjLZYtYcAt4_RH-GMXgnQJ9zPsFJ69HPZZQCYAewGJfOPjAqFKxbkfEYBESIjmkxaOo215ouTA-gjQx62_EWAGB449MfydGJbptHrOKDl4gWyfZAFXSW
I See Faces, by Yvonne Brewer
For as long
as I’ve known
I see faces
in a fallen tree
Yvonne Brewer is originally from County Offaly and lives in Cork, Ireland and has had poetry published since 2014 with Women’s Spiritual Poetry, including in their fourth anthology “Goddess: When She Rules: Expressions of Contemporary Women”. (Dec 2017) Motherhood has taken her down a very creative path and her writing is greatly influenced by her children, her dreams, nature and fairies.
In 2013 Yvonne self published an e-book called “Breathe and Bloom. Soul Mother Meditations”
She also has had poetry published with the Blue Nib and her poetry has been read on several audio poetry radio shows of American poet Tamara Miles “Where the Light Most Falls” broadcast by SpiritPlantsRadio.com
Yvonne’s Website: https://www.facebook.com/yswords/
Yvonne’s poetry book, Twigs, is available on Amazon:
If, From the Top, by Mark Burns
Surface, by Mark Burns
Look north, from here, Derry quay
The crooked elbow of the Foyle
Bends left from the curve
Where bridge divides city.
Look all the way
To the flat line horizon.
The gasping mouth of the hungry lough
Opens, sucks in, chews, swallows
Regurgitates, spits out repeatedly
The toll bells that chime
Calling card of the dark Atlantic.
Along here, across from Derry quay
The full canopy of the oak lined banks
Reflect so still atop
The plate glass surface.
It mirrrors us. It reflects, us
So still so breathless.
It neither shimmies or shakes
Moves neither one way or that.
Nothing breaks the gunmetal surface.
Except a bubbled wake trails
Search and Rescue, life lost boat.
Underneath, trouble tumbles and turns
Sinks slow to the sea bed
Drifts and rolls and rests
With silt, sand, mud, stones
And the unbearable weight
Of overburdened hearts.
Mark Burns: Sometime writer, broadcaster, poet and all sorts of nonsensical things.
Eruption, by Ailsa Cawley
It’s bubbles are hot and the lava like acid burns
My throat tight from tasting anger
Twisting and turning as turbine
You spout nothing but searing air
To then forget goldfish-ly as the wind changes.
Your world has no room for anything of logic
It contains your grand vision
You the star of your own show
Roses falling at your feet in the hurrah
That you decided you deserved
And still you wait for it…
Differ and Change, by Ailsa Cawley
Undercurrent flows into conversation
A bitter edge that says you’re not better
Yet I never said I was
How do you explain it?
That you just need to see what else there is
Know what other choices there are
Make decisions without fear of
The failure that surely follows
If you dare to change
And allow Times mist to swirl around
Carrying you with them to new things.
If you’re happy where you are I’m happy
For you are living your plans
As I am
Neither of us better or best
Just different and happy with our choice
So we shall have to beg to differ
And I will follow my change.
Alisa’s websites: https://ailsacawley.com/
Frosty Night, by Clare Glynn Chitan
I greet the changing seasons of the year
That hoary frost that leaves a silvery tear
Foggy clouds that rest on trees
Moisture slowly dripping in the breeze
While droplets glisten in the air
The cold that seeps and permeates the earth
Put seeds to sleep until the warmer light
A wolf she howls and chills the bones of night
The silvery ghost of winter nights
Her gown glistening in bright light
As moonbeams move in elegant delight
Hail to the moon that walks the night
And covers all she sees in silver light
Writing poetry and prose has immersed me in occupation. I have no time to grow old; I am too busy, now that the floodgates have opened. I have dipped my toe in the waters of creativity. I can see creativity all around. The one who paints the nails in imaginative ways ,styles hair in exotica. Groups putting the world to right, craftsmen in their trade. Dentist creating a new smile. We are all creative; some have not recognised it as yet.
Clare Glynn Chitan’s Website: https://chitanclare.wixsite.com/mysite
Her poetry books, written under her nom de plume, Glynn Sinclare, are available on Amazon:
Service Dog, by Michael G. Hickey
I could be a Schnauzer, a Black Lab, or a Dalmatian, but I’d prefer to be a German shepherd, and you could name me after a Greek god or your great grandfather or that punk/funk band you really like. When we go out, I would start wagging my tail like a pendulum in heat and you could dress me in one of those neon orange vests with the silver stripes (maybe neon yellow on special occasions) that read in big block letters: SERVICE DOG. I would follow you around tirelessly, endlessly, binge-watch TV with you, and suffer from acute separation anxiety when you leave the house – ripping up cushions, your favorite pair of suede pumps, and knocking over that crystal vase you got from your mom last Christmas. Upon your return, I would shamelessly avoid direct eye contact thereby implicating the cat. I would sleep with you, cuddle with you, and be your over-sized lap dog with an insatiable desire to please and be petted by you. I would lick your face. I would drool but only a little. After you give me a bath in the mudroom, I would shake a dog-halo spray all around the room. I would be the epitome of loyalty, faithfulness, and fidelity, loving you unconditionally into perpetuity. On weekends, you could take me for walks to the park and teach me to sit up and beg. You would feed me human food under the table even though you’re not supposed to and if I ever sensed that someone was threatening you, I would bare my teeth, snarl menacingly, and transform from your watch dog into your personal K-9 unit. Essentially, I would love you like you’ve never been loved before and even if you drank tequila through a crazy straw and texted your ex-boyfriend six times, I’d sit with you all night while you cried and say to you with my eyes: He wasn’t good enough for you anyway. I would love your poetry and listen to your songs and admire your watercolor paintings of sailboats and clouds drifting across impossibly blue skies. I would bark in approval at that faux mink stole you bought at the thrift store even though you couldn’t really afford it and if that bad thing from the past that happened when you were a little girl creeps into your dreams and you can’t get back to sleep I’ll be your PTSD dog, and when you’re surviving solely on blind faith I’ll be your guide dog, and if your life ever completely implodes, I’ll be your search-and-rescue dog and sniff every square inch of rubble for signs of life until I find you. I will never stop searching. And if you throw me the tennis ball 112 times in the backyard on a Sunday afternoon, I will fetch it 112 times, breathe heavily, and wait for you to throw it again so I can retrieve it again and you will love me even more today than you did yesterday, which you didn’t think was possible. I will not need a collar or leash because I will never get lost or run away and if I ever get sick… really sick… like when I’m 91 years old in dog years… so sick that the vet can’t save me, you can cry into my fur as long as you want until it’s over and know I will be waiting for you on the other side, at the threshold of the spirit world, caressing your scent, your essence, and your light while I look for something to shred ‘til you get there.
Michael G. Hickey received a BA in creative writing from the University of Arizona, 1987, and an MFA from the University of Washington, 1992. In 2009, he was inaugurated as Seattle’s eighth “Poet Populist.” His first novel, Counterclockwise, was released by Northchester Press, as well as his first full-length book of poetry A Dress Walked by with a Woman Inside. He has volunteered as a creative writing instructor for children at bereavement camps as well as for inmates at the Monroe Correctional Complex and King County Youth Detention.
Books by Michael G. Hickey:
COUNTERCLOCKWISE (fiction) https://www.amazon.com/Counterclockwise-Michael-G-Hickey-ebook/dp/B0098RGAFU/ref=sr_1_2?keywords=michael+g+hickey&qid=1564630863&s=gateway&sr=8-2
A DRESS WALKED BY WITH A WOMAN INSIDE (poetry) https://www.amazon.com/Dress-Walked-Woman-Inside/dp/1477466053/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=michael+g+hickey&qid=1564631028&s=gateway&sr=8-1
Soothing Perspectives, by Pamela Hobart Carter
I like the idea
that we’re seeing
into a parallel universe
when we imagine things.
I’ve had that
as a working theory
for a while now.
some of the agita
from this world.
I always wonder
what of the things
we see in fiction
are really true
My other trick
is scale–to think
of myself as
a small animal
on a spinning globe. Yes.
The universe is
much bigger than
any transitory issues here.
Pamela Hobart Carter loves Seattle as much for its water and mountains as for its bustle and creativity. She explores the Emerald City daily while walking her dog. Carter used to be a teacher who wrote on the side. Now she is a writer who teaches on the side.
https://thebasiloflaherty.weebly.com/pamela-hobart-carter.html My most recent poems.
A Message From Mom, by Linda Imbler
Angels walk on Earth in guise of mortal manifestation.
A painted rock with one word, love,
written on it and placed strategically inside
a zoo rock garden
by a kindly woman.
Found by a recently motherless boy.
my mother left this for me.
Through heat of summer
or chill of winter,
children will remind us
that those who left us leave messages,
if only we act with the eyes and ears
of our early years,
and we look and we listen with the hearts
of the innocent.
Linda’s Contacts: Email: firstname.lastname@example.org
Books from Linda:
Cracker Jack Box Poem, by Michael Lee Johnson
I don’t wear my pocket watch anymore
it reminds me of my age, 73, soon more,
outdated gadget, time hanging where
moving parts below don’t belong nor work anymore.
I don’t like to think about endings.
Age is a Cracker Jack box with no face, modern speed dial,
no toy inside, when it stops, no salute, just pops.
Lesson: “What young men want to do all night takes older men all night to do.”
South Chicago Night, by Michael Lee Johnson
Night is drifters,
sugar rats, street walkers, pickpockets, pimps,
insects, Lake Michigan perch,
neon signs blinking half the bulbs
Young Couple- @ Heart Attack Greasy Grill, by Michael Lee Johnson
I was a little boy,
tad hillbilly son,
patterned then in
hardly old enough
tall enough to work
nor notice if I had pubic hair-
large or small endowment
growing up self-conscious
about short comings
Just a teen aged nighttime boy
looking 4 a part-time hook up-
little girl play, with a five-card stud.
Preacher daddy raised me,
back-seat Christian boy
low on faith high on doobie
I took my 1st job, pancake flipper
@ Heart Attack–Greasy Grill, 24-7
pocket coins 4 tips, a few greasy dollars,
pancake short stack, secret menu was that
boss’s daughter, blood on hands,
my bun busted now stale, stained, & baked.
Eliminate lines unessential:
waitress injected me some spice
old time recipe.
Michael Lee Johnson lived 10 years in Canada during the Vietnam era and is a dual citizen of the United States and Canada. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, amateur photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois. Mr. Johnson published in more than 1072 new publications, his poems have appeared in 38 countries, he edits, publishes 10 poetry sites. Michael Lee Johnson, has been nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards poetry 2015/1 Best of the Net 2016/2 Best of the Net 2017, 2 Best of the Net 2018. 190 poetry videos are now on YouTubehttps://www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videos. Editor-in-chief poetry anthology, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze: http://www.amazon.com/dp/1530456762; editor-in-chief poetry anthology, Dandelion in a Vase of Roses available here https://www.amazon.com/dp/1545352089. Editor-in-chief Warriors with Wings: the Best in Contemporary Poetry,http://www.amazon.com/dp/1722130717.
Mp3 Files Available/Some Poetry Photos/Open To Interview Requests. Short Bio & Personal Photo Available On Request. PoetrySh139
Do not forget to consider me for Best of the Net or Pushcart nomination!
Before the Storm, by Martha Maria
Over cast, heavy
and damp, the morning sky rides
the tawny backs of
Too silent the birds
too still the woods; nary a
breath stirs lank leaves; not
a lizard or bug to be seen
the sole sound
my feet striking ground
as I traipse the valley alone
Martha lives in a small white house in the woods in the shadow of the Cumberland Mountains, in Oak Ridge, Tennessee. That little white house is also where most of her music is produced and recorded. When she’s not playing music, she’s wife to Bob and mother to Joseph and Walker.
Martha Maria’s website: http://www.dogwooddaughter.com/
The Haunting Happens at Certain Times…
by Tamara Miles (Irish and English Translation)
The following poems are “found poems,” in the sense that all Irish Gaelic phrases are borrowed from the Foras na Gaeilge‘s New English-Irish Dictionary and then built and shaped into poetry in various combinations in English. I am not a native speaker of Irish Gaelic, but I am an interested learner, and have traveled to that beautiful green country in October, 2017 to give a poetry reading (in English). Using simple phrases without the option of greater sentence variety/structure has taught me to contain the essence of what I want to say in a tighter, more succinct, yet vivid manner. The poem is presented first in Irish Gaelic, followed by the English version. The Irish poems have little punctuation or capitalization, following the form in which they are found in the original format. Foras na Gaeilge has provided permissions for use of the phrases.
The Haunting Happens at Certain Times…
Bionn taibhsi ann ag amanna ar…
scal solas na gréine ar an gcnoc
pictiúr d’ábhar neamhbheo
bláthanna teach téacháin
thit scáil ar an doras
bhuail ga gréine an bord
fear atá tógtha san fhuil
uisce beatha te
maidhm charraige le fána
tuile agus trá na taoide
thosaigh sé ag cogarnach
lagaigh an ghaoth
The Haunting Happens at Certain Times
sunlight fell on the hill –
a still life painting,
hothouse flowers –
a shadow fell over the doorway,
a ray of sunlight fell across the table —
a hot-blooded man,
a fall of rocks down the slope,
the rise and fall of the tide,
a closely guarded secret.
His voice fell to a whisper.
The wind fell.
Tamara Miles teaches college English and Humanities. Her poetry has appeared in Fall Lines; Pantheon; O’Bheal Five Words, Tishman Review; Animal; Obra/Artifact; Rush; Apricity; Snapdragon; Crosswinds Poetry Journal; Whatever Our Souls, Cenacle, and Oyster River Pages. A 2016 contributor at the Sewanee Writers’ Conference and a resident at Rivendell Writers Colony in August, 2017. She has an audio poetry journal/radio show at SpiritPlantsRadio.com called “Where the Most Light Falls.”
Tamara Miles Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/tamaramiles.poet/
Poetry Book, Earth Gospel, available: https://www.amazon.com/Earth-Gospel-Poems-Tamara-Miles/dp/1072672626
Haiku, by Carmen Peone
Aged roots unearthed
Life once booming now flooded
New memories made
My eye on you
Trust earned and established
Bound in love
Women Writing the West Past President, 2019 WILLA Chair
Award-Winning Author *~*~* Order HEART OF COURAGE now!*~*~*
Link for Carmen’s books: https://carmenpeone.com/books/
Poem by Jenny Ní Ruiséil
A cycle complete
From its unconscious beginnings,
to the inklings of awareness;
Some heeded, some hindered.
Some hauled mercilessly into the open;
here, we no longer hide.
Baring all a constant discovery.
Creation, destruction, layer by layer sinking teeth into that which we once
forbade ourselves to touch,
Spices of what we’re made of – sweet, sour, bitter, pungent – sprinklings of
antidotes to simmer down and regroup.
Each feeling is a flavour.
Tasting it all – full nourishment, full circle, full embodiment, light and laughter.
Toes disappearing into sand –
the waves above a salty reminder of humanity
and the minute blip of this
Single, solitary cycle.
Returning to the shore,
We start again.
Hi there – my name is Jenny!
I’m primarily a Yoga teacher, writer, and musician, yet I try to include creative aspects to all of my work and everyday life – no matter where I am or what I’m doing. I believe that as creative beings, we humans have the responsibility and power to continuously redefine, create and manifest our ideal lives. The healing and empowering properties of the ancient Hatha Yoga practices are something which have helped me in this area, aiding in my recovery from and management of anxiety and other mental health issues, and inspiring me to start sharing some of these skills, observations and techniques with the world.
Jenny Ni Ruiseil’s Website: https://manifest-yoga.com/
The Wooing, by Melissa Steffy
Heavy boxwood perfume
untouched by the brisk winds
flitting amongst updrafts
I love you dear
tinsel and twigs
bottle caps and grass sprigs
can’t you see
sing my best
how much I love thee
Melissa Steffy is a person, like many on this planet, and yet unique, as we all are. She hopes for better for her children, for humanity and for this place that we call home. Her words come from things she’s seen, good and bad. Thank you for reading her words, for feeling whatever feeling they bring for you. Perhaps you have your own story to write.
Melissa’s poetry book, Big Sky and Broken Hearts, is available on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Big-Broken-Hearts-Melissa-Steffy/dp/1979682933
Waiting, by Ann Christine Tabaka
Hard back wooden chairs
dull pale green walls
minutes morph into hours
thoughts rush forward then retreat
racing back into the blackness
Outside, morning rain falls softly
reminiscent of an old song
with emotions rising to the tune
like so many smoke clouds
evaporating into the atmosphere
Poppy seed salad dressing
added to the grocery list
phone calls need to be returned
the black cat on the video cries
bringing reality back in focus
Time has no master but itself
and so the day continues
like a ping pong game of the mind
where no one loses
and no one wins
Notebook resting on a lap
words written on a page
conclude the next chapter
all the while sitting
in a hard back wooden chair
*Published in Quail Bell Magazine, http://www.quailbellmagazine.com/the-unreal/poem-waiting-by-ann-christine-tabaka
Ann Christine Tabaka is a nominee for the 2017 Pushcart Prize in Poetry. She placed Third in Vita Brevis Best Poem Contest both January & February 2018. Her Interview on Spillwords was voted Publication for the Month for March 2018. She was selected as Poet of the Month for January 2018 and interviewed by Kingdoms in the Wild. She lives in Delaware, USA. She loves gardening and cooking. Chris lives with her husband and two cats. Her most recent credits are Page & Spine, West Texas Literary Review, Oddball Magazine, The Paragon Journal, The Literary Hatchet, The Stray Branch, Trigger Fish Critical Review, Foliate Oak Review, Bindweed Magazine, The Metaworker, Raven, RavensPerch, Anapest Journal, Mused, Apricity Magazine, The Write Launch, The Stray Branch, Scryptic Magazine, Ann Arbor Review, The McKinley Review. *(a complete list of publications is available upon request)
Author’s Page: https://www.amazon.com/Ann-Christine-Tabaka/e/B06XF2PWSK
Anne has several books available on Amazon:
Pumpkin Spice Latte, by April Thompson
Autumn breeze runs through leaves
On trees of changing color
Swooping strands of hair let down
Wearing my favorite sweater
Chilly hands embrace my cup
Of aromatic bliss
Taste of Fall, sweet creamy spice
Feels heavenly and indulgent
The seasons warmth flows through each sip
And fills me with enchantment
April Thompson has been writing for some time now, and with all three of her children in school, she has found a few magical hours to create and share.
The Litany of New Things, by Kenneth Wagner
the new juice glasses scream a high static ring so shrill
the dinnerware waddles out of the cupboard toward the sink
The new couch bristles the middle cushion arches
like a halloween cat and the new flat screen T.V.
swipes at my head flapping like a bird caught indoors
the whole house is nervous when my mother comes to visit
it knows nothing will escape her assessing eyes
her hymn almost a whisper as she stares down the new
valences and road tests the new blender and toaster
that’s new…that’s new…that’s new
is that new yes…yes it is…it’s new
my mother is older since I saw her last
more frail and outwardly helpless
but the engine that drives her still growls
with injustice and want her anger a hiss
as she tells me I shouldn’t buy new things
but send the money to people who can use it better
the new carpet rolls over showing it’s rubber belly
giving up before it can be seen and I hear the new
bed galloping around upstairs trying to find a place to hide
clutching the new comforter up to the chins of the new pillows
what’s the household income here because it seems like a lot
it seems you have more than you need
the new throw pillows are so nervous
and unsure of themselves they are vomiting
and the windows are pulling their shades
not wanting my mother to see their tears
this house is too big you should rent out a room or better –
I will live here you have plenty of space
the new juice glasses scream again and I turn just in time
to see the dinner plates on the ledge of the sink
ready to take their own lives
Kenneth’s poem “The Litany of new Things” appeared in the journal – Hanging Loose #104
Kenneth Wagner is a poet and teaching artist in Seattle – he’s been a student/assistant teacher
for David Wagoner at the Hugo House for the last 11 years.
He met Celaine when forced to sit in the front seat of Full Throttle, at Magic Mountain’s
brain-numbing rollercoaster….Celaine was sitting solo in the front
taking notes for a poem on wind and speed. Poets meet other poets In the most absurd ways –
we never did find out what happened to that poem, on the second dip, the G force took her notebook away.
If you would like to view my personal poetry, it’s on “My Wednesday Whims of Poetry” page: https://stepsinbetween.com/poetry/
As always, my thanks in your support!