Note: We are glad to received many emails from all over the worlds. latest issue is late by two days. This was happened by the failure of electricity in our area. i thanks full to all poets and writers for their precious writings. (editor).
Monday, October 1, 2012
Christmas Jingles, Inside a Snowy Hollow Oh writers block and resistant wind!
Robert Alexander Deason:
Please wash me away, before all else fails.
Oh Aphrodite! Please cultivate the holiday blossoms!
So that a Poinsettia may swallow me whole!
So that we, may enter Godric’s layer . . . .
Which is the Kingdom of White.
My wishes are granted.
My dreams are true.
I can now view my illusions from the inside.
Jingle . . Jingle . . . Jingle . . . .
Julia. Julia!
Grace me with your presence!
Let us embrace the mistletoed doors!
And the splendid spruce.
The spruce that provides the wreaths, and the trees that wear the bulbs . . . .
In order to light the season.
O Julia! Enter our realm!
All is silent inside the kingdom.
The snow lacks print, and I, you.
What is this game you play?
Are you lost? Aren’t I found?
Show me the way!
Jingle . . Jingle . . . Jingle . . . .
An eerie sound I must hear.
It is bright, but lacks cheer.
The bell tones vary, so who must this be?
Maybe an angel, or a lonely Virgin Mary?
No! It is a messenger!
An at-the-moment descendent of Hermes.
The Ghost of Christmas Past, maybe?
Yes!
For away in a dream cloud . . . .
The eeriness lingers amidst the chapped mountain air.
The bells speak to me. The voice answers me.
“Julia! Julia! Love her no more!
Please note that the real world trapped her lonely soul!”
Could it be true?
Did the poinsettia wilt before a Christmas miracle?
I believe so. Because all is silent again.
Shaded sound is forever present, inside the Kingdom of White.
All that I needed was love.
A magical, Merry Christmas.
Inside a safe, snowy hollow.
Just me and my bride.
Me and Julia, side by side.
Despite perseverance, my dreams are false.
Real, is true.
Oh Aphrodite! Ready the pistils!
Slingshot me into reality! So that the world may swallow me whole!
So that I, may exit Lord Godric’s layer!
So that I, may long for real love!
Because I missed Julia’s jovial jingles.
The Kingdom of White is dead.
Jingle . . Jingle . . . Jingle . . . .
Pshhhhhhh.
Robert Alexander Deason
POEMS BY JATINDER AULAKH
Thirsty
banks
The water
find its
way
towards
its destination
grind his
own axe.
What is
religion of water
per haves
the religion of water is
satisfaction
of thrust.
The water
does not need to know
religion
of thirsty
and not
intrust in nationality
Water
finish the thrust of birds
and
beasts
the
thrust of earth , crops
and human.
But it
does not finish the
thrust of
its banks.
in which
water flowing
why banks
are thirsty by born
and die
with their thrusts.
Surjit’s poetry is the power with which she wage a war against the system
ATAMJIT:
Shikast rang
(tint of frustration) is a book of poetry written by Surjit who lives in California
She was full of
life that everybody looked at her as victory personified. Then why she has to
paint the hues of defeat in her poetry; Frustration that may not be personal
and be at level of the category that she belongs to the woman? Why she has to
say that there was a light in entire city, but the door she knocked at had only
burnt out lamp? Unfortunately for me, the teacher, she extremely sure of
quantum of her pain that can even affect the object such as ocean:
The walking sea
has stopped
It must have
read my writings.
In fact Surjit
is trying to raise a question, so many women done in past, that the society can
not do justice with the existential concerns of women, in a available set of
social structure. How can we reply to such questions that she is posing with
lot of strength?
I am in search of
my home
Let any
philosophy
Any scripture
explain to me
To which home i
belong.
Mother’s womb?
Father’s house?
Lover’s heart?
In-laws’
residence?
Or the funeral
place?
As a working
woman she has another question for us that we hesitate to confront:
When i come
back
All corners of
my home
Call me for
job.
My household,
office, Children and their father
Everywhere I am
required
Everybody needs
me.
But how should
I define
my needs ???
Poems by: David Louis Firestone Feinberg
AS STOLID SOLDIERS OFF TO WAR
As stolid soldiers off to war
March silently the years —
Forever ready to record
The regimen of tears.
And who can call them from their fight?
And who can send them back?
Not one will pale before his plight —
Nor halt his vain attack.
------------
I WRITE TO YOU MY OLDEST FRIEND
I write to You my oldest friend —
Although Your address haven’t got —
And so — my letter — where to send?
How know I if received or not?
Expect — regardless — post returned
To sender — here — in earthly jail —
Or might not be reply — if — earned —
Arrive — then — by celestial mail?
-----------
COME FREQUENTLY IN DREAM THE DEAD
Come frequently in dream the dead —
To wander Now as if they Were —
Surprising not — though — resurrect —
Ignition light of sleep occur;
But when the morning — strange they seem —
Of empire other land their ilk —
And by the sunrise fly their dream —
As bird or bee or thread of silk.
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