things i found when i wasn’t looking
By Bev Smith
i am in
for my busy
allows no rest
no room or
on my cowering
of your stare
and i’m finding
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
with calloused hands
your heart and
pulled out sky.
a place my kites
could fly forever
worry of tangle
in the nature
of your gentle,
corralled the sun
so each morning
in all weather
i may find a dance
among it’s rays.
placing every cloud
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
its solid ground
and i will feel
all that lies within
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.
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.
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,
She kept pestering;
I broke down.
I may have slapped her,
not more than once;
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
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,
no matter what.
I just can’t fathom even today,
pulled an Amy on me?