Issue 3 - 8 May 2018 (Part 2)

Beginnings

 

A steaming cup, joined by another

Hazel on amber, a forest raging with fire

Did time stop

Or did it begin

In that moment, there was nothing but him

 

Spencer Séverin is a 20-year-old Canadian university student.

 

Let Us Celebrate

Tunic of the sky is torn
and the light night heavily
sprinkled with the stardust 
this is as I see; a dream
of the prophet of the past ages
remnants of today’s endeavors 
of the mock
the library of my being
unfolds as prayer flags in Nepal
stones, plants, insects, reptiles
animals of all sorts and
visible, semi-visible and invisible conjoin
in a procession one hour after
dark when crimson blood- drops 
turn to ruby and sperm into nacre
let us all sing and celebrate life
the night has come!

Fahredin Shehu is a poet, writer, essayist and Independent Scientific Researcher in the field of World Spiritual Heritage and Sacral Esthetics. Born in Rahovec, South East of Kosova, in 1972, he graduated at Prishtina University in Oriental Studies. Passionate of Calligraphy, he actively works on discovering new mediums and techniques for this specific form of plastic art. He boasts an impressive list of awards.

Writing Desk

 

The dictionary is really just a tree with leaves that fall 

to the ground. I like to pick them up and make them 

into funny shapes. Once a year I collect them all 

and put them into a basket and burn them so that 

they might grow again. But never in Fall. Never in Fall.

 

Ricky Garni grew up in Miami and Maine. He works as a graphic designer by day and writes music by night. A trilogy of books – THE TABLETS OF DOMINO, VIA, and 10022, will be released simultaneously at the beginning of 2018.

 

A Teddy and His Friend

 

Hey over there!

You

Over there! 

Why not in a chair?

To share

With me a bear of

No hair do you

Hear?

Over here!

You

Hey over here! 

Everyone needs a friend to share

 

Wesley Harris is a father of one, a husband, a forensic psychologist, graduate student, and bilingual writing enthusiast. He is an aspiring writer who loves the effect that words have on the soul and the evocative nature of poetry.

 

God, Love, Truth, And Light

 

If you want God

I can show you to the forest

but that’s a tree you’ll have to find yourself

 

If you want Love

I can point at the moon all day

but it is the night that you’ll be needing

 

If you want Truth

I can teach you all about addictions

but that’s a drug you just can’t shake

 

If you want Light

I can flash these shining sirens

but, sadly, most choose to fall back asleep

 

Scott Thomas Outlar hosts the site 17Numa.wordpress.com where links to his published poetry, fiction, essays, interviews, reviews, live events, and books can be found. His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Scott was a recipient of the 2017 Setu Magazine Award for Excellence in the field of literature. His words has been translated into Albanian, Afrikaans, Persian, Serbian, and Italian.

 

XXV

by Adriane Seville, trans. by J. Aviles

 

I carry your song through the day.

The song of your body -

a little coyote made of sand

panting with a tongue of pale rubies.

 

I sing a song that wears your face

each note filled with howling

and nocturnal flowers. For the moon

each note blooms pink as your lips bloom.

 

When night lays itself across the desert,

only then do I lay your song down

deep inside of myself and you

 

take up each note in your own voice

sing of my longing which brings you near to me

as a dream. A coyote of sand. A tongue of pale ruby.

 

Octavio Neftali (April 19, 1914  – May 2, 1981) known by his pseudonym, Adriane Seville was a Spanish poet best known for his Exiled Verses, which were expanded and published several times throughout his life and constitute the majority of his political verse. The poems featured here are from his collection of sonnets Amor Oscuro dedicated to his second wife Josephine Bellafiore, published posthumously. Argentinian writer J. Aviles has presented the English translations from source material.

 

Missed Opportunity over Coffee

 

Our meeting was a fluke, no premeditation at all,

one in a thousand with a dropped cap introduction.

 

And such a coincidence: we both had developed

a taste for coffee, cream but no sugar: a fortunate

beginning.  I thought to know you.  As a friend?

 

The misunderstanding was entirely on my side.

 

Prepared to discuss other mutual interests, I did

not ask about your politics.  When they emerged,

not immediately, but buds of innuendo, shorthand

opinions, confusing allusions to media thinkers,

praises for the rule of law, particularly punitive.

 

I recoiled.  I stood.  I apologized; I had to leave.

You called me “doctrinaire.”  To support this,

you cited as source undisputed alternative facts.

 

Keith Moul’s poems and photos are published widely. Finishing Line Press released a chap called The Future as a Picnic Lunch in 2015. Aldrich Press published Naked Among Possibilities in 2016; Finishing Line Press released (1/17) Investment in Idolatry. In August, 2017, Aldrich Press released Not on Any Map, a collection of earlier poems. These poems are all from a new work about prairie life through U.S. history, including regional trials, character, and attachment to the land.

 

Paying for the Cold

frost clings to the window
a scatter of forgotten dimes

I strew snowdrops on grass
cents linger in a lunatic sky

there’s no moon in my pocket
coins sparkle in this cold river

ripples mark where minnows hide
a dollar nests in black velvet

cast random thoughts on my path
I have no change for beggars

foot-prints in fresh dew
icicles drop nickels on tarmac

Joanna M. Weston, married, has one cat, multiple spiders, raccoons, a herd of deer, and two derelict hen-houses. Her middle-reader, Frame and The McGuire, published by Tradewind Books 2015; and poetry, A Bedroom of Searchlights, published by Inanna Publications, 2016.

 

A Brief Tour of the Senses

 

A group of American teens is a snaky addition

To the Credit Lyonnais queue and one unwraps

 

A Mars bar, takes a bite and savors, closes

Eyes as if this were her first or last victual

 

On the Metro, an old man reminds me of my grandpa who kept

Caged canaries that enjoyed his briar pipe second-hand with him

 

A guy wearing tasseled loafers, bow tie and striped shirt musses

His punk-styled hair and seeks advice from his window image

 

He smells of potent citrus cologne that’s very far from unpleasant but

A dimpled-woman whiffing deeply doesn’t shut her eyes to imagine

Thomas M. McDade resides in Fredericksburg, VA, previously CT & RI. He is a graduate of Fairfield University, Fairfield, CT. He is twice a U.S. Navy Veteran serving ashore at the Fleet Anti-Air Warfare Training Center, Virginia Beach, VA. At sea aboard the USS Mullinnix (DD-944) and USS Miller (DE/FF 1091).

 

better days

 

Mom’s black

scrapbook album

with licked on

black photo corners

and silvery date–

name notations

had seen better days

 

babies booming

grade school siblings

Merry Christmas Darling

from Korea days

 

lifetimes

timelines

black and whites of

the greats and grands

laid out

in their best

Wanda Morrow Clevenger is a Carlinville, IL native living in Hettick, IL. Over 520 pieces of her work appear or are forthcoming in 161 print and electronic journals and anthologies. Her first of a 5-volume chapbook series ‘young and unadorned – where the hogs ate the cabbage Volume 1’  has released through Writing Knights Press.

 

Pluviophile

 

Carousal of nature

Being a lullaby for the aborigines

She comes as an appease for them

For the well-heeled, she is all about an enjoyment

For the destitute, she is all about the chiming sound

That cuddle the utensils

For reapers, she is a benediction

And for the blooming soul

She is all about the commemoration.

I could see the jubilant hearts

Abiding for an appease

As a renovation

It ablute my grimes

Being an unexpected guest

She comes to my life

Hiding and seeking at fortuitous circumstances

As a melody for my life.

I want that comrade 

To keep the world awake

To keep the minds enliven

And to refurbish happiness 

Around the world.

Expecting another return of her

Assuming that she may come soon

To this molten earth

As a cool breeze

Having heeded to those sunset

I could hope for a sunrise.

Life is a solitary confinement

And is all about

Dancing in the rain of emotions.

Alan Cherian Puthenpurayil is a budding and emerging poet from India. His motto is “rising by lifting others”.

 

Marshland

 

the bellow of puffed up frogs,
the shuffle of brush and wind,
cattails sprung tight and straight,
turtles sunning on a rock,
bubbles popping on the surface
from slithers of silver below,
and a line of gently parted water
beyond which a mallard
slowly swims

 

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Examined Life Journal, Studio One and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Leading Edge, Poetry East and Midwest Quarterly.

 

December

 

At last December saunters in,

Bringing down the wind and cold.

Let the season now begin!

Bid adieu to a year now old.

Clouds blot out a sky once clear.

Snowfalls drop without a sound,

Giving us a Christmas cheer.

But midst the cold our warmth is found

As these days once more grow long,

Let every single girl and boy

Link their hands and sing along

To this song of love and joy.

Previous publications of J. S. Allen include short works in the local periodical Shorelines. Of these, two stories (The Buck and The Otter Kit Streamer) won 1st and 2nd place for fiction in the 2015 and 2016 editions respectively. Do visit the weekly weblog on WordPress: https://jsallenblog.wordpress.com

She has Ireland in her Heart

 

A thunderous clap awakens her as she winds her way over swelling hills.

Roads cut through the grassy knolls; cradled by earth between her toes.

Ancient musing lures: crooked stones become artifacts --

And, tunes, unfold from another time.

 

Songs whisper to her soul, like water flowing over granite stone.

Melody soothes aching bones; cracks that splinter during a winter chill.

She does not stray, her path she seeks,

Even when pitched into foggy haze.

 

Daylight gripped by twilight sky.

She has Ireland in her heart.

Rebecca M. DeLore began writing songs, poetry, and fiction at age 9. She recently retired as a Protective Service Investigator with the Department of Human Services. She has an MS degree from Western Oregon University and Oregon State University. She obtained her BS degree from the University of Oregon and lives in rural Oregon as an emerging, creative writer.

Social Work

 

A rolly polly moves slowly

beside the river. I give him

a 20 minute pep talk,

it doesn’t help. His self-esteem

is irreversibly low.  

 

There’s a moth with one wing

down the way on the top branch

of a baby juniper. I lean in close

for a magnified interrogation.

He holds me with a hateful look.

 

His friend, the fly over there,

is in the dimple of the canyon’s chin.

He’s practically lifeless, probably

an iron deficiency. He

doesn’t want to hear about it.

Tim Staley was born in Montgomery, Alabama. His debut collection, Lost On My Own Street, was released by Pski’s Porch Publishing in 2016. His most recent chapbook, The Most Honest Syllable is Shhh, was released by NightBallet Press in 2017. He founded Grandma Moses Press in 1992 and continues to serve as editor. He lives with his wife and daughter in the American stretch of the Chihuahuan Desert. For tour dates and more visit PoetStaley.com.

yesterday’s weather today

yesterday’s weather today

next year’s model later

tomorrows love a willow blossom

last year’s war feels endless

today’s tyrant a paper tiger

last month’s savior a flash in the pan

current hunger real

childhood termed immortal

those bodies dead forever

antique soil caked in blood

next month’s promise feels hollow

this afternoon’s lunch hot and spoiled

tonight’s drinks all watered down

the witching hour’s nightmare wants a do over

this morning’s hangover is a murder

last week’s news a suicide of culture

this moment’s thought deemed hollow and irrelevant

and the future sitting here now?

it already feels like ancient history

John Grochalski is the author of The Noose Doesn’t Get Any Looser After You Punch Out (Six Gallery Press 2008), Glass City (Low Ghost Press, 2010), In The Year of Everything Dying (Camel Saloon, 2012), Starting with the Last Name Grochalski (Coleridge Street Books, 2014), and the forthcoming The Philosophers’ Ship (WineDrunk Press, 2018) He is also the author of the novels, The Librarian (Six Gallery Press 2013), and Wine Clerk (Six Gallery Press 2016).  Grochalski currently lives in Brooklyn, New York, where the garbage can smell like roses if you wish on it hard enough.

Like the Back of My Hand

Cords of aging tendons, 

the cables and wires underneath, 

that valley between my thumb and forefinger

folded like hills receding into the mist,

 

soft eskers of veins, even on my knuckles,

ridges like ropy lava, 

pits and spots on old scars.

So many fine crevices and wrinkles.

 

I pinch the flesh up to a tiny mountain, 

revealing my skin’s layers, folds, escarpments,

watching as I sink back, so slowly

into the ground of my being.

 

Visiting a friend of almost ninety,

I see more translucence to come,

a proper thinning of the barrier 

between me and the earth.

Heather Saunders Estes is a poet living in San Francisco, who moved west from small town New England 43 years ago. She walks around the city, tends her bonsai and kale, observes ravens, and adds to the map of the best vacant lots and corners of parks to pick blackberries.

Monday Morning

It is a long distance, from your wrist

to the bend of your elbow.

You roll another whispery fold

of your shirt sleeve.

In some place over your knuckles,

a dark line begins

a super charged expressway.

I track it

till it disappears higher up,

to a warm, dark space

away from your blunt fingertips

to the hollow

where your shirt sleeve lies nestled.

 

I smell the soap from your shower

And you, my coffee.

Maya Bhalla is a visual artist, living and working in Singapore. When she is not hands deep in clay or paint, she can be found at the local Kopitiam reading; and because the hours of the day are never enough, it is the writing that happens in the blackest times of the night.

© 2018 The Pangolin Review

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