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New Poetry, Fiction, Essay

Poetry Four

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things i found when i wasn’t looking

By Bev Smith

 

i am in
my lazy
and
have found
the most
inspiring
of things

for my busy
allows no rest
no room or
contemplation
for change

i’m guilty
and confess
to hiding
my prosper
behind stout
walls

your
broken toothed
fortress crumbles
revealing
envious eyes
and though
i’ve tattooed
this
thankful shawl
on my cowering
shoulders
their burden
chafes under
the yoke
of your stare

and i’m finding

 

-i’m too
damn
hungry
to
continue
pretending
thin;

 

and walls

they
bleed,
if hit
hard enough

.

.

the deepest blue of you

By Bev Smith

..

for awhile i lingered in a silence, this place where light no longer
differentiated between the shadows cast ~ bev smith

 

yet,
with calloused hands
you
reached inside
your heart and
pulled out sky.

a place my kites
could fly forever
without needing
worry of tangle
or
tethering strings.

in the nature
of your gentle,
you
corralled the sun
so each morning
in all weather
i may find a dance
among it’s rays.

placing every cloud
with care
in their dark place.
where in escape
i may stay to brood,
running the bulls
that on occasion
need freed of
my devil’s way.

and in your strength
pulled for me
every mountains mass
skyward.
so sometimes,
when needed,

my feet
can touch
its solid ground

and i will feel
at once
all that lies within
our love.

.

.

Bev Smith: Sometimes we find ourselves in the damnedest places. Stumbling around in the dark,  poetry was the shade I needed before I could tolerate the sun again ~

Equine professional since high school. Horseman since birth. I train dressage horses and riders in Texas on our family farm with my husband and two sons.

.

.

..


.

What is that Equation

By Ashutosh Dash

.

The equation that inscribes the anthropic synergy;

Is the equation that evolves Brain-stein’s gravity;

The equation that tranquils the theorem of everything;

Is the equation that enthrals the purpose of being.

 

When anthropic accretion annihilates gravity;

Space-time wraps and exhilarates relativity;

When energy is the matrix of dimensional travel;

Paradoxes combine forming a quantized gravel.

 

But yet I wonder what is that equation;

The enigma of consciousness in the wondering dimension;

What is that equation that survives in the transcendent uniqueness;

That enforces anthropous and gravity condenses.

 

What is that equation that supports existence;

That reinforces the galaxies, to thrive in quantized intelligence;

Yet that equation lies in each quantum of His palms;

Who vibrates the strings in the rhythmic calms.

.

.

Ashutosh Dash: To explore the elegance of knowledge that flows within my ignorant body and soul and discover each corner of the universe using the language of mathematics…..

 

 

.

.


.

Sky, an open window

By Tamara Miles

.

Sky, an Open Window

Window-shoppers never tire of a glass menagerie;

light falls equally on the giraffe and the laughing hyena,

though only one is graceful. From heaven,

God, too, sees his colorful, organic panoply

on the blue planet under an epic sun.

The sharp edge of a slow-moving glacier

fascinates Him, as does a village ski-slope

on which tightly bundled tourists climb,

some soon to tumble down, down,

and on the ground collapse in laughter.

 

Far from there, a team of scientists

and ethnographers treks into the Amazon forest,

a complicated maze of broadleaf trees,

low-lying bushes, and entanglements, to study

its inhabitants, most of which are insects,

including Gigantiops destructor,

an ant with enormous eyes designed for jungle navigation,

and the jewelled caterpillar, destined to metamorphosize

into a winged moth.

 

Kafka’s mysterious beetle might be here.

Only big-eyed God knows; he counts each creature,

even the strange, camouflaged jumping stick

and the praying mantis, a personal favorite

in his collection. Its spiny arms extend to trap its prey,

then return to Namaste.

 

But I’ve forgotten the indigenous

people, who watch, amused, from their hidden height,

as the industrious outsiders plunder on

against the setting sun, and the precious light

they depend up grows dim like a storefront bulb

that flickers and then suddenly goes out.

The great store-keeper has drawn a curtain

across the sky; the kinkajou has drawn in the last fruit

with its five-inch tongue. Wait. Look closely there.

In the murky river, an electric eel still shimmers.

.

Tamara Miles teaches English at Orangeburg-Calhoun Technical College in South Carolina.  She was honored to be a 2016 contributor at the Sewanee Writers’ Conference. Her poetry has been published in Fall Lines; OBheal Five Words; Pantheon; Love is Love; Apricity; The Tishman Review; Subprimal Poetry Art; The Rush; The Gateway Review; Obra/Artifact; The Devil’s Doorbell: Vagina Edition; Snapdragon; Whatever Our Souls; The Cenacle; and Crosswinds Poetry Journal.

.


 

He Drives

by Rajnish Mishra

.

He presses pedals, rushes fast,                                                                                     Drives impatiently,                                                                                                       Angrily past plastic, glass and metal.                                                                   Cuts through slow, slimy snails,                                                                     driver’s bane,                                                                                                     switches lanes,                                                                                                  swerves, then goes slow                                                                                         and blocks their lane                                                                                                For revenge.

He drives                                                                                                                   with geometric precision,                                                                                       with a drive to drive,                                                                                               eyes of tiger,                                                                                                                     half-a-smile.                                                                                                           Lingering fingers or eyes                                                                                               on mobile screen, not his way,                                                                                his style is simple,                                                                                                    not a moment extra                                                                                                spent on the road.                                                                                                 Rage erupts when he outdrives,                                                                                   with a war to wage                                                                                                 every moment.

How could he, she, or they,                                                                                            delay him for a second?                                                                                        ‘Mon semblable, mon frère’?                                                                                You know him.

Don’t you?

.

.

Apologia pro vita mea
.
by Rajnish Mishra
.

I don’t remember exactly

what happened that evening,

she told me

she wanted her minute,

hour or year of fame.

She told me loudly,

that she felt restrained;

living at my mercy.

I tried to reason,

with a woman,

and failed.

She kept pestering;

I broke down.

I may have slapped her,

not more than once;

lightly, tangentially,

I don’t remember clearly

now, but I know how

to restrain myself.

 

I was beside her,

just seven inches away,

separated by a wall.

Listening to her sobs

through the night.

I apologized the next morning,

even made her an omelet

and coffee.

She said nothing.

Her words were drained

with her tears maybe.

She did not respond,

I left for work,

looking at her,

although I didn’t know it then,

for the last time.

 

In the evening,

I returned with two tickets

of Life is Beautiful,

and a resolve

to be more patient with her,

always,

no matter what.

 

I just can’t fathom even today,

why she

pulled an Amy on me?

Gone girl!

.

..Rajnish Mishra, poet, writer, blogger and critic has published works in various journals and magazines. His love for his city and his awareness of its effects on his psycho-social development led him to starting his blog: rajnishmishravns.wordpress.com. The blog features both his academic writing and his writing on his city: the City of Light, Varanasi. Then, as he is a poet, and loves reading and talking about other people’s poems too, he started another blog: https://poetrypoeticspleasure.wordpress.com/.
.

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