You dreamful, dreamy, moony and dreamed King of Elves! You became in the most amazing ways:
A dazzling statue of Buddha, as if a ghost created it from the moony dreameries. A parrot on the statue: the paradise-like birdie, awoken from stunning, meek, tender dawn. A bonfire – the shimmer in the soft night with its warmth born from the muses of the tenderness. A bewitchment-enchantment of a bliss, that brings amaranthine wind from paradise. A poet worships the statue belonging to the dreamery of the Erlkings from the morns. A pearlful inspiration in the wise mind, full of eternity of the Morningstar. The poet who writes the most dazzling poesy like soul-softness of muses with tears. The bonfire is being adored by the awoken bird of the melancholy of the times. A daydreaming of the sylvan elves, bewitched in the dawns and the gorgeous Golden Fleece. A whisper, that melancholy, for me and fancy of sempiternity, gives.
We praise, You most tender Erlking, and your treasure: ontology, eschatology, epistemology, ethics, aesthetics, logic, metaphysics, epicureanism and stoicism, all of them, enchanted by tender Buddha in a most picturesque way.
Paweł Markiewicz was born 1983 in Siemiatycze in Poland. He is poet who lives in Bielsk Podlaski and writes tender poems, haiku as well as long poems. Paweł has published his poetries in many magazines. He writes in English and German.
You can find more of Paweł‘s work here on Ink Pantry.
there once lived a swan couple devoted to each other as they cosily huddled flying together across sapphire skies seeing the golden dawn of a new sunrise
life sailed across a river of dreams carrying echoes of songs that gleam smiles shimmering on the shores of love as they cooed like a pair of doves
life flew on the whispers of the breeze a gentle, fleeting rustle of the leaves in the hush of twilight’s solitude they heard the symphony of the interlude
’til time, cruel time snatched him in life’s prime and she was left alone in the twilight alone in the grief of her soul’s long, dark night
she cried and cried copious tears on time’s tide her heart breaking each time Facebook brought back her reveries and mine breaking to see her memories
and then one day, she spotted Cygnus the Swan constellation in the northern sky, seeing her mate in the silver stardust, she smiled, silver-haired, and tried to adjust making peace with grief in her heart while honouring love that would never depart
Avantika Vijay Singh is a communications professional wearing the hats of a writer, editor, poet, researcher, and photographer. She is the author of Flowing… in the River of Life and Dancing Motes of Starlight (ebook) and editor of five anthologies. A recipient of the Nissim International Award Runner Up 2023, WE Gifted Poet 2024, and WE Illumination Award 2024, she has been published in national and international journals. Nature’s beauty, sustainability, life, spirituality, and humanity are her muse, lending immense depth to her poems.
It could happen to anyone, what emotions do to undo us. Reveal the unexpected. In such abrupt instances is it each other we really feel? Consider this fort of a man. He’s some cool-headed professor. Hasn’t his authority been resented, so stern, so robotic? Here he is now projecting slides of his Nicaraguan humanitarian trips, all the peasant women & children, their hunger & his own. The lectern cracks with some savage gentleness, & his is a surprise. Looking back down the road, years & poems on, where’s a snapshot of this, & where in the whole world is the wiser revealed?
Jealousy
These glimpses are just beyond nonchalance, this demeanor of civility. They are ready to flare Pompeian, jet like lava from the blood.
We don’t make love to each other. A third party intervenes, its green gaze mirroring the hidden, a sudden fit enlarging a moment of tenderness for grown children reduced to shrewish slithering Medusas.
One look and be now stone-turned stolid. What shines the length of our flesh? Heated, greased lightning with the fervor of alcohol? Lust incites possession, fears the urge, loathes the irrational while passion sips tea and hands us our heads as salted meat on the breakfast tray.
Rope-made, the knots, the ties tight between what lifts & goes & pulls & pushes hour after hour with or without any breaks at all.
Any breaks? All loads are shouldered & found as a squeeze between boulders, breathing to go home
Wouldn’t you want to go home by placing hands there on these muscles that could steam like horses watered down after a race & then go further, give them all a blanket & a day & a night where their backs could be
just touch for themselves?
Try This One On
The fender’s impact shrieks. These wheels, teeth, eat whatever flesh gets in the way. Oh you can have that world, brutality a past-time, the predator sizing up the diamond miners’ worth, so useful unless they get out of line.
Human resources, commodities: the ghetto boxer’s survival dependent on beating fists. Bets from the screaming crowd are only part of the packaging.
Pal, they’ll call you. Pal, play your hand. It’s a shell game.
Later, if lucky, shrewd, demand top price while the ring,
the ring still takes toll.
Laughter
The good guru—– wisdom/innocence, a rush as if from rocks, water gushing through. Give air, a gasp, a snort, innards/spirit, a spray of baby’s breath, soft rustles now, hush hush fingers, clap, cover the whispering lips, eyes reflecting the sound, eyes only, squinting & maybe a few trickles, (lick, trace, let fall), carrying further what spirits know living in the torn forth sound.
Stephen Mead is the resident artist/curator for The Chroma Museum, artistic renderings of LGBTQI historical figures, organizations and allies predominantly before Stonewall: https://thestephenmeadchromamuseum.weebly.com/
Stephen is a retiree whom, throughout all his pretty non-glamorous jobs still found time for writing poetry/essays and creating art. Occasionally he even got paid of this. Currently he is trying to sell his 40-year backlog of unsold art before he pops his cogs: https://www.artworkarchive.com/profile/stephen-mead
You can find more of Stephen’s work here on Ink Pantry.
Wrought inside a cherry centre, made-up from love-bound wind Just while shit razors cry, I bend up for inexplicable owls whose spind skin Gets woofing after dizzy eyes and pained breads and haloers for xmas wind? O, you appear now to ask All about the Ides of midmarch and devilries and abaddons and kicked limb And we will starve for a slit as we gabble after Domed dragglers that must come forever home to a mod casementer for failure (And if I could have just one cool dreamtime, perhaps dead buckrabbits will Beget bereft hair from huge mares and sea-sanders that render holy pets from liveliness and pure Love).
Jim Bellamy was born in a storm in 1972. He studied hard and sat entrance exams for Oxford University. Jim has won three full awards for his poems. Jim has a fine frenzy for poetry and has written in excess of 22,000 poems. Jim adores the art of poetry. He lives for prosody.
You can find more of Jim’s work here on Ink Pantry.
an incredulously rich crimson— flamed flamboyantly where it had risen arching above the emerald defiantly hailing Spring in Jharkhand joyously… flames of fire blossom blossom fiery flames
bold and beautiful are they in season growing in the jungles rampantly, Palash is the beauteous one exuding a primitive raw beauty, that caught my heart so exuberantly, flames of fire blossom blossom fiery flames
brave and beautiful are the one who live in the shadow of the Palash euphorically uncoated by the plastic veneer of urbanisation exuding a primitive raw beauty… living life in synchrony with the flames of fire that blossom in the heavens
far from the reaches of civilisation no concrete roads reach them vitally no motorised vehicles reach anyone no piped water reaches them instantly no thick mattresses cushion their bodies comfortably… their bed of hardships infusing in their backbones, steel warships
and, yet they know the joy of the season… the Palash springing to life vividly in the colours of life, crimson that thrums raw in our veins exuberantly, smearing the colours of life ecstatically… flames of fire blossom blossom fiery flames
Avantika Vijay Singh is a communications professional wearing the hats of a writer, editor, poet, researcher, and photographer. She is the author of Flowing… in the River of Life and Dancing Motes of Starlight (ebook) and editor of five anthologies. A recipient of the Nissim International Award Runner Up 2023, WE Gifted Poet 2024, and WE Illumination Award 2024, she has been published in national and international journals. Nature’s beauty, sustainability, life, spirituality, and humanity are her muse, lending immense depth to her poems.
You can find more of Avantika’s work here on Ink Pantry.
Underneath the rain bridge, you mimic the river in perfume, glass lamps after glass lamps illumine your forehead with a mark of clear water.
The rain drapes fragrant sheets we garment in the water of your hands, we vigil for the pure light as you willow the river and incense the lip of a jar.
We drink from the stream beside the grass path where the sky powders wild violets, the sky floats on a stone flame.
The Rose Sphere
Blood flower, fire flowers set the moon on escutcheon, you walk on embroideries, the sky a tapestry falcon, the cup of your breast spills from a river red tunic.
We drink the wine from your side, glow horses and run as the rose sphere jewels the night air, persimmons drip like your necklace from a wet branch.
The Moon Vine
A river of light sparks in the night trees, the sky willows bend anemone, our hands blur at the surface of water.
You rain in ink to purify the lanterns, cup to cup we wash exalted, the sky lights clean through a bracelet of trees, you sever pomegranates from the moon vine.
John Swain lives in Le Perreux-sur-Marne, France, and has published two collections of poetry, Ring the Sycamore Sky, and Under the Mountain Born. His chapbook, The Daymark, was recently published by the Origami Poems Project.
Jianqing Zheng is the author of several poetry collections including The Dog Years of Reeducation, recipient of the Mississippi Arts Commission poetry fellowship, and professor of English at Mississippi Valley State University.
I woke up looked out my window and saw green pouring down trees cascading over emerald grass
This noon swollen wet bursting water now even heaven is tinted jade as birds linger under branches listening
When I Was New
When I was new and the world was new.
So many roads to wander under a cerulean sky. Forbidden fruits to savour, forbidden lips to taste.
Full of promise, flowers budding on the vine. Their perfume covering my fingertips.
I hurried through each day alive with my songs. The moon rose just for me and stars burned just for me
Every morning brought sunshine to my window. Another day filled with wonder waiting at my doorstep.
Spring was greener then. When I was new and the world was new.
Joan McNerney’s poetry is published worldwide in over thirty-five countries in numerous literary magazines. Four Best of the Net nominations have been awarded to her. Her books The Muse in Miniature,Love Poems for Michael I & II,At Work and Light &Shadows are all available at Amazon.
You can find more of Joan’s work here on Ink Pantry.
Wherever you hang paintings, the walls are willing.
And every heavy sculpture the floorboards are eager to hold up.
Wherever you put them, all are there to please you.
If works of art were lovers, you’d be the one they kiss.
BANQUET
I have an urge for everything forbidden from the lick of an ice-cream sundae to the blessed, unspoken parts of you. Sweet-bread and flesh. Lush tomatoes and the pleasure of your tongue. Peach juice dripping and saliva captured in a bright pink curl. Honey and salt from the jar, from skin.
What if… now there’s an unforgiving beast that never saw a feast it didn’t turn its back on. So many kept apart over the years. Opportunities sealed off. Possibilities banished. More regret than a heart can hold.
But forget the tempting foods and let’s concentrate on you. The pleasures of the table have their place but the bedroom is a banquet for the soul. You are ripe And I’m feeling adventurous. Now’s not the time to be tentative. Remember, safe means unfulfilled in my language.
FAMILY GALLERY
I keep the bastard locked up in a photograph just for old time’s sake. The eyes glare. The nose rises, mouth jerks sideways, in a snarl.
I get like him some times. I feel what he felt – that life can be a wretched, cruel and debilitating way to live. So I understand why he preferred a more honest reaction than a smile when the camera clicked.
But I have a marriage to sustain, friendships to maintain, a job to hold down, and an obligation not to burden other people in the world with my gloom and anguish.
So I keep the bastard locked up in a photograph. As a warning. As a stand-in even.
ALGEBRA
as wobbly as wounded soldiers we headed back to campus, smelling of smuggled beers, as prepared as we ever were for our afternoon class
me knotting fingers, you burping, we took algebra at its word, with A the finger divided by B the furrowed brow equaling X the endearing mind multiplied by Y the blurred vision times Z –
when the value of Z is Zzzzzzzzzzz
THE BOXER
He spent twenty years of his life trying to knock some guy to the canvas.
Now he’s brain-damaged, his ears ring constantly, and he doesn’t even know his own name.
He won fights and he lost fights. And he lost the fights he won.
A HOMELESS MORNING
Morning holds on to its darkness for as long as it can, resisting the early efforts of the sun to burn off shadow. In six a.m. catacombs, the homeless rise warily, their territory about to undergo its daily transformation into the site of an invasion. They cling to the pockets of black, alleys, doorways, subway corridors, the last shreds of shelter. But eventually, commuters hit the sidewalk like armies. Hands reach out, begging for change. Faces hide from the light.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, New English Review and Tenth Muse. Latest books, “Subject Matters”, ”Between Two Fires” and “Covert” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Amazing Stories and River and South.
You can find more of John’s work here on Ink Pantry.
A silvered whisper caressed an old deer path in a woodland then faded into shadows as the night was transformed into the morning as the sun edging slowly over the mountain shinned its golden rays onto meadows where softly flowing streams awaited. Then far way in an ocean, the last greyish ray of moonlight skipped across the incoming tide filled with briny whispers as an apricot-coloured thread draped over the sand dunes, unraveling time as it approached. Then the tiny flame of morning, flickered into being, and dreams were swallowed up by a yawn.
The Night’s Beginning
As the evening neared, I listened to the lonely frogs croaking in a tiny pond: They seemed to be serenading the moon. As the day slowly whispered into shadows, and the night began its dark tour of duty to protect the hours from crumbling, I retired for the evening.
Stars, those tiny sparkling lanterns, were penetrating the sky. The breeze was balmy and soft, the country road silent, and night birds were singing softly. As the clock chimed twelve, the day vanished into the night and the moon became a mere glowing silver orb bouncing against the crimson horizon.
I watched the last hours of the day vanishing into silence, as the stars gazing from millions of light years away, were splashing in the sky. I waited for the night’s long hours to cover me, and as my breath mellowed, I faded into sleep, and memories turned into dreams.
So Much Forgotten
Fading visions of borrowed prayers, forgotten truths, and the faint quivering images of all my yesterdays floated inside luminous clouds like butterflies flitting in the breeze. Then as they merged with lonely songs of night birds, stars, flickering like Chinese lanterns, dimly glowed through dreams of whispering voices, and everything vanished into the past.
James has published five collections of poetry, and over 1850 poems in scores of national and international publications, such as The Ink Pantry, Sparks of Calliope, Nebo, Miller’s Pond, Penwood Review, Front Porch, London Grip, Minetta, The American Aesthetic, El Porto, Badlands Journal, Sparks of Calliope, and hundreds of others. He was twice nominated for The Best of The Net award, and four times for a Pushcart award, and was the featured poet, of the month in literary magazines, eleven times. He earned his doctorate from BYU and his BS and MA from California State Polytechnic University.
You can find more of James’ work here on Ink Pantry.
