Getting up in the morning I’d rather be canoodling with a stranger in my dreams But work isn’t going to wait for me As I push the duck feather pillows away My bones ache with the strain of age I would rather spend the day Numbing my mind with soap operas And stuffing my face with chocolate Instead of going to meetings Filling the bath with soap and water I am exhausted As lavender and vanilla permeate my senses The urge to call in sick increases But the hot water does little to ease my woes Because the routine itself drains my energy Work, home, friends, and so on The same pattern, the same people, I’m tired of this routine, I’m tired of my life, I’m sick of these walls. I’d rather be somewhere else. These thoughts fill my mind As I sink further into the bubbles Trying to escape from another round Of self-loathing and regret.
The Beach
Charcoal sands is my only company As I stare down the icy blue ocean
Flowing as the wind skinny dips in it Whilst my thoughts are elsewhere
Wondering how many people have stood In this sand admiring nature’s landscape
How many breaths have been inhaled here? Questions without any answers
As I pick up a pebble and throw it I wonder if my lover is across these tides
This beach is my anchor In the chaos of my pursuit to find love
An action some people spend a lifetime on But I know regardless of the outcome
I can always walk on this sandy panacea Without sadness and without judgement.
K.G. Munro is an author and poet. Here are a few of her writing credits: Oddball Magazine, Poetry Potion, Scarlet Dragonfly Journal, Splendeur Magazine, Green Ink Magazine, Feversofthemind and so on.
Let me think One word To talk about the day. Let me feel One feeling To talk about the night. Let me draw One drawing To colour life. I dwell in my garden I attain The university of imagination. Let me be one lesson That rethinks the ambition Of escaping time Running away With the modern cobweb. Being me Is the true Unselfish desire. It does not create misfortune On the less fortunate ones and Every possible door greets Everyone.
Sushant Thapa is from Biratnagar, Nepal. His fourth book of English poems is going to be published by World Inkers Printing and Publishing, Senegal, Africa and New York, USA. Sushant has an M.A. degree in English literature from Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi, India.
The myth has happened in darkness of forest, near the old druidic altar with the stone. It was foggy then, shrouded in last summer. Here a fawn was born at dawn and morn – no woe!
Near the spring that belonged to the moony grove, naiad Arethusa is sitting on grass. Artemis – the soft goddess without trouble. It is the dreamy time for the Blue Hours.
The Utopian time is coming with charm. The naiad is musing about nightingales. They were known and famous in the whole land. Their song – for the sake of dazzling paradise.
Arethusa was not a mortal being. Artemis is resting now, only dreaming.
Arethusa and Alpheus I
In the grove where the druid’s fire sparkled at last evening, the Naiad dreams of the righteous, dear, beauteous time. The glade should be cleaned up after the amazing meeting of the Olympic gods and goddesses last pretty night.
The logic of Arethusa dreams of deductive wings. At the edge of forest the God Alpheus is waiting for the Naiad and apollonianly propitious mind. Having stroked the forest-like fawn, she is to him – coming.
He has hunted for wildcats at midnight with fancy – here. The love for her is such fabulous, gorgeous musing about the ontologically perfect Golden Fleece. The love is lost delight and only stardust of feelings.
She should become his amaranthine wife – the virgin. for life in depths of unending artemislike timbers!
Arethusa and Alpheus II
If dear Arethusa miswedded, she would sully tender crystal soul. She is going home quickly – away, dreaming of scintilla of the morns.
Don’t pick musing flowers of my hope! Leave me alone and my wizardries! Moony paradise seems to be lost. The naiad escapes soon from the forest.
On ship towards Ortygia-island, she meets the captain, former pirate and three divers with pearls in their hands. They want to dream and sleep, it is late.
The captain remembers the midnight storm. Naiad’s homeland becomes indeed lost.
At the sea II
She must find motherland in exile. Legendary seagulls are flying. The country of sailors is the sea. The waves of Poseidon are dreaming.
She can praise the morns – the charming dawns, full of celestial spirits of spell. The dreameries rest in new homeland, which shimmers over the meek vessel.
Despite this Artemis´ forest lives, where stags and does dance, muse forever. She thinks about the ambrosial tears. She listens to choir of pearl divers.
Naiad begins praying to Artemis just in the most Apollonian ways.
The prayer senso stricto
Owl from the grove listens to prayer. The most propitious and gorgeous words. Let moony star-like memories fly! Goddess sleeps in alluring forest!
Your roe is so appealing and grand! Your hedgehog is handsome, good-looking! Your bear is so cute and delicate! Your squirrel is so fascinating!
Enrapture the beauteous diamond! Beguile the splendid – classy agate! Enthrall the angelic emerald! Allure the bright – divine sapphire!
The wings of birds need to enchant world. Star of philosophers – next to owl.
in Dreameries
Arethusa embellishes a dawn, bewitches the fantasy of the moon with ravishing, resplendent stars, becomes bucolic dreams of the gods.
She is such a good, cute Eden. or an apollonian Arcadia land that was eternally Promised, as the mirth of Eudemonia.
Be charm fulfilled such epiphany! It is from an ontology – child. I wish you were from eternity. She would be the perpetual stream.
Sempiternity is immortal. Her stream-becoming is eternal.
At the oracle
God Alpheus was at the Pythia. He needed a plethora of feelings. She looked at the ancient amphora. Eudemonia would be clear in dreams.
The oracle wanted to help them yet Pythia, having drunk, told the pure truth. She told: The Naiad was on the isle. She is spring – such a heaven, so blue.
Pythia wrote for Apollo poetry about dreamiest mysterious from wind, as well as of stolen Golden Fleece about apollonianly soft mirth.
Long live an eternal oracle! May poems be the most delicate!
End-sonnet
The poem is an obol. The nightingale is singing. The naiad needs from live more. The lover is new dreaming.
Styx – river of destiny. The God would be the river, through the dreamed eternity. They become philosophers.
I love the stoic sparklets of Arethusa – naiad, and of the brave Alpheus, so beautiful is the time.
I want to finish sonnets, in dreams of the Grecian myths.
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.
Wine country returning to Napa and Sonoma too Camping to teach kids about safety in their rooms Smart Home new service for the groom Southern Oregon’s leaf strewed Kazoo California’s wine country is bouncing back to-do Larger than life instaurations of the sun at noon Super powers of skin multi-sensory to bloom Three generations sail through the Greek taboo Camouflage armour identity of course Be good win big in Alaska even drunk Suppose now it did happen would he bleed remorse? The Hearse on the Cross-Gun Bridge with a sleeping Monk Haulage rope mud choked bottled Carron Horse Only circumstantial odour from a Skunk
Sonnet CCLXXXXIII
Unshed tears were not dropping in her Gin Sad plight Golden Rule Cajole Philosophical assertion control Faint sent of urine on her skin Butterflies don’t play Violin Hand-Maids of the Moon patrol Bristles shining wirily around the May-Pole Seated crossed-legged smoking a Coiled Pipe in Berlin Reign of uncouth stars plot Shadows lay over her Blindfold Corps rising salt white from under a Robot Loom of the Moon’s old Stench of his Green-Grave Gut Augur’s rod of ash Centerfold
Sonnet CCLXXXXIV
Little pool by the rock’s music Bold as brass delicate high jump Soft clinging white aristocrat slump Her very heart in a limerick Gnawing sorrow now she is sick Cry nicely before the Stump Stole an arm around her rump Impetuous fellow strength of a hick Spit fire blue in the face clever She tickles tint tots’ Brains Saying an un-lady like thing to the server Long slow kiss after the Champagne Wisk well like white of eggs forever She wanted his ball having won again
Sleepy Whale 485
Relinquished his post arch wine Ten Seconds surface of her land Contemplate suppressed grand King Street smells of pine Frequentative erroneously swine Pleasures derived with literature at hand Drank jossers silence contraband Supervision pantomime sign
Sleepy Whale 491
Her neonist wears an Opal Ball-dress to write Improper overtures from men Writing on Tortoiseshells with Pens Lines between shutters light Frost- bound coachman arrives to night Drawn the limit of ten Her caves in silk hose with them Insulting any lady’s double-envelops white
Terry Brinkman has been painting for over forty five years. Poems in Rue Scribe, Tiny Seed. Winamop, Snapdragon Journal, Poets Choice, Adelaide Magazine, Variant, the Writing Disorder, Ink Pantry, In Parentheses, Ariel Chat, New Ulster, Glove, and in Pamp-le-mousse, North Dakota Quarterly, Barzakh, Urban Arts, Wingless Dreamer, LKMNDS and Elavation.
You can find more of Terry’s work here on Ink Pantry.
You are an enjoyable juniper! You are a pleasurable bush! You are an agreeable poplar! You are a delightful spruce! You are a gratifying cedar! You are an amusing birch! You are a diverting corn! You are a bonny pine! You are a lovely palm!
Your sepal be alluring! Your petals be delightful! Your stamens be appealing! Your carpel be graceful! Your corolla be good-looking! Your filament be pretty! Your ovary be stunning! Your ovule be foxy! Your anther be ravishing!
You honour starlet-like dreamland. You admire moonlet-like mirror. You exalt moony fairyland. You deify moonlit enchanted rose. You praise starry gingerbread house. You glorify starlit forest. You apotheosize comet-like spell book. You magnify spherical tower. You gratify sunny Ovidian sword.
Pawel and the Neoceltism. This poem is a dreamy manifesto of the Neoceltism, the spirit in which Paweł has created his English poesy.
You can find more of Paweł’s work here on Ink Pantry.
Only in war and trouble could I comprehend Who was my foe or friend? In times of tranquillity and peace it wasn’t clear When all was well my friends were there
When the sign post showed clear blue sky I consorted with friend and enemies but never knew why Still a friend is one who will tell you the truth Be by your side when there is no proof
Jealousy and envy is not in a friend’s heart And a love rival will never tear you apart They will give you a bed to sleep on at night Be there to stop you from having a fight
Knowledge and wisdom always share with a friend That unbroken trust and bond can’t end A friend knows your secrets and should be quiet But will follow you to war or political riot
Even when you doubt yourself, a friend gives assurance And will carry your heavy load and bear endurance Money, should never come between you and a friend Never ask for interest when asked to lend
Jesus had twelve friends but knew one would betray I do hope and pray that you never see that day In years to come real friends shall remain by your side Trust in a real friend, secrets don’t hide
You can find more of Brian’s poetry here on Ink Pantry.
What do you make of your first relationship? Extremely pathetic. How would you describe him? A rogue but with a profession and a suitcase. What did you learn from that experience? That some men never grow beyond the teenage stage. Was he handsome? Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder. What made you love him? A sheer absence of companionship. Did he love you? In a narcissistic capacity. How did you get over him? By living on another continent. Any happy memories with him. The birds we fed. If he were still alive, what would you like to say to him? I wouldn’t want to waste my breath.
COVID-19: Featureless
He speaks of the dusk of each muffled sentence, the quarantine of an adjectival clause, the numbing of a tantalizing subject, the feverish heat of a muddled metaphor, in a mummified tone.
I turn to see who is sitting behind me, a featureless man with a knife and a fork, contemplating his plate of chips and pork.
I think a zip for a mask of cotton could be a designer’s profitable call should COVID-19 continue to involve such a vast expenditure of cloth.
The masquerades of high circles displaying a wide variety of looks, a gorgon’s, a Joker’s, a Nero’s, now boasts a new addition to its host: a circle with multiple horns.
COVID-19: Charades
I compare the global, infernal arena to our own horrific, domestic scene and wonder which is more disheartening, the lack of amity between nations or the death of the fraternal on each familial mien!
I creep out of my inner bubble for a waft of fresh breeze. They no longer starve us, it is suffocation by contagious fear, since a single sneeze can render one’s cordiality impotent and each word one utters is a threat to be seized.
Our scars are too deep, pledging eternal visibility. They have become the trend that the elect and elite wear on their masques on public charades to boast their solidarity with the afflicted in their own aesthetic way.
He snored away
He had snored away his honeymoon, laying the blame on his nightwear which his best man had bought for him as a wedding gift, with the colors that sedated him most, even stripes of turquoise alternating with cerulean blue.
He snored away the advent of his first baby Annabelle Ruth, whose wailing at night kept him awake, inducing a very sullen mood, so large doses of sleeping pills were his last resort to weather that familial storm.
He snored away his amicable divorce, which had loomed in his horizon for long. His wife, who had filed for it, supplied him with the necessary amount of booze to alleviate the hard feelings that a separation induced, lulling him to sleep after only one glass or two.
DrSusie Gharib is a graduate of the University of Strathclyde with a Ph.D. on the work of D.H. Lawrence. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in Adelaide Literary Magazine, Green Hills Literary Lantern, A New Ulster, Crossways, The Curlew, The Pennsylvania Literary Journal, Ink Pantry, Mad Swirl, Miller’s Pond Poetry Magazine, and Down in the Dirt.
Susie’s first book (adapted for film), Classic Adaptations, includes Charlotte Bronte’s Villette, Virginia Woolf’s The Waves, and D.H. Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover.
You can find more of Susie’s work here on Ink Pantry.
Sounds, ship and sea-formed, rigging’s creaks and groans, the rush of bow-split water a hiss of displeasure, they pursue fate, jettisoned provisions a sore loss. After Tenerife, starless but dry, no rainfall since approaching the equator when the cursed pumpkins began to spoil, a threat lurks, something in the air other than ozone. Churchill, always seeking eminence, nurses a scalded hand, the cook, broken ribs. James Morrison’s arm is infected.
A Scot, an educated man good at judging heights and distances at sea, Morrison runs his mind over how these tars have been spoiling in the wake of the aforesaid pumpkins amid the galley’s enveloping smoke because of Bligh’s schemes. Surely their vituperative profiteering captain won’t be taken for a god à la Cook? Constant gales prevent their navigation of Cape Horn.
On midnight watch, Morrison discerns the sails’ dim outlines. Cocooned by night’s cloak he can’t stop thinking about the bird, eight-foot span wingtips stretched, killed and eaten earlier that day. Sailing the panic of wind off Patagonia’s coast riding tunnels of air like a heavenly messenger, its grace, soaring freedom, aroused optimism. He knows they rest at Tristan da Cunha, endure long arduous journeys.
Young James Ballantyne misses historical drama’s denouement, no crowd scene role treading the boards of that deck in the future’s final act. His corpse sinks, slowly rotating, free-falling in a chance choreography through the ever-darkening ocean, fish twitching away from his shroud, ropes holding firm so far. Solemn shipmates wrench their thoughts from this, the first death, strain towards their sweet theatre of dreams, the idea of Otaheite’s sun-blazed volcanic mountains illustrating an otherwise monotony of horizon.
Bligh’s frustration washes over pustular Surgeon Huggan. Still abed, obese, pickled, his foetid days now acutely numbered, Bounty’s doctor, cabin a congeries of spillage, wine and sweat, drools vomit to his rattling chest. Several ships have been sighted but they have spoken to none. The boy sailor’s remains borne by gravity away from shillings of light dappling the sea’s surface, grief hovering in abeyance for his people in Blighty, the wind has freshened since Van Diemen’s Land, its airy questing urging them each to his particular end.
Ian C Smith’s work has been published in BBC Radio 4 Sounds,The Dalhousie Review, Gargoyle, Ginosko Literary Journal, Griffith Review, Southword, The Stony Thursday Book, & Two Thirds North. His seventh book is wonder sadness madness joy, Ginninderra (Port Adelaide). He writes in the Gippsland Lakes area of Victoria, and on Flinders Island.
You can find more of Ian’s work here on Ink Pantry.
Arthritis and aging make it hard, I walk gingerly, with a cane, and walk slow, bent forward, fear threats, falls, fear denouement- I turn pages, my family albums become a task. But I can still bake and shake, sugar cookies, sweet potato, lemon meringue pies. Alone, most of my time, but never on Sundays, friends and communion, United Church of Canada. I chug a few down, love my Blonde Canadian Pale Ale, Copenhagen long cut a pinch of snuff. I can still dance the Boogie-woogie, Lindy Hop in my living room, with my nursing care home partner. Aging has left me with youthful dimples, but few long-term promises.
Crypt in the Sky
Order me up, no one knows where this crypt in the sky like a condo on the 5th floor suite don’t sell me out over the years; please don’t bury me beneath this ground, don’t let me decay inside my time pine casket. Don’t let me burn to cremate skull last to turn to ashes. Treasure me high where no one goes, no arms reach, stretch. Building for the Centuries then just let it fall. These few precious dry bones preserved for you, sealed in the cloud no relocation is necessary, no flowers need to be planted, no dusting off that dust each year, no sinners can reach this high. Jesus’ heaven, Jesus’ sky.
Note: Dedicated to the passing of beloved Katie Balaskas.
Priscilla, Let’s Dance
Priscilla, Puerto Rican songbird, an island jungle dancer, Cuban heritage, rare parrot, a singer survivor near extinction. She sounds off on notes, music her vocals hearing background bongos, piano keys, Cuban horns. Quote the verse patterns, quilt the pieces skirt bleeds, then blend colours to light a tropical prism. Steamy Salsa, a little twist, cha-cha-cha dancing rhythms of passions, sacred these islands. Everything she has is movement tucked nice and tight but explosive. She mimics these ancient sounds showing her ribs, her naked body. Her ex-lovers remain nightmares pointed daggers, so criminal, so stereotyped. Priscilla purifies her dreams with repentance. She pours her heart out, everything condensed to the bone, petite boobies, cheap bras, flamboyant Gi strings. Her vocabulary is that of sin and Catholicism. Island hurricanes form her own Jesus slants of hail, detonate thunder, the collapse of hell in her hands after midnight. Priscilla remains a background rabble-rouser, almost remorseful, no apologies to the counsel of Judas wherever he hangs.
Willow Tree Poem
Wind dancers dancing to the willow wind, lance-shaped leaves swaying right to left all day long. I’m depressed. Birds hanging on- bleaching feathers out into the sun.
Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet in the greater Chicagoland area, IL. He has 275 YouTube poetry videos. Michael Lee Johnson is an internationally published poet in 44 countries, has several published poetry books, has been nominated for 6 Pushcart Prize awards, and 6 Best of the Net nominations. He is editor-in-chief of 3 poetry anthologies, all available on Amazon, and has several poetry books and chapbooks. He has over 453 published poems. Michael is the administrator of 6 Facebook poetry groups and member of the Illinois State Poetry Society
