The bright colours of a seaside variety dotted on beach huts stretch out behind me. The smattering of rain strives to deter their charm and attraction. Today, thoughts cry. The sand dilutes. With stress, fragments and words from my pen fray. The pavement weeps, and it distracts my eyes. Shoulders knot. The sun collides. The sea falls short. Tomorrow, attentiveness will win. A visit here will champion. Clothes will lead. Colours share. Stages glow. The wind will rejoice. The song will saunter. Loneliness will dwindle. About the author:
Kay Medway works full-time in a library. Kay writes poetry in her free time and had a poem for children in The Dirigible Balloon's Chasing Clouds anthology to raise funds for The National Literacy Trust.
0 Comments
The sweaty palms wrung the life out of each other as if every last drop of blood had to be squeezed out. It took only an unholy week to turn her life upside down. “This can’t be real”, there went the mind with its tricks again. “Don’t trust that voice”, a rational warning rang in. “Embrace the truth, Accept your fate”, it urged. “Amor Fatis”, appealed in Latin. Where’s the blanket of truth when you need it to muffle these flames of dubiety? Some jolly novel shipped her thoughts to the copper beeches in Ireland noise-cancelling the beeps of Heart Monitors and IV Pumps. Drowning in the sea of oncological jargon Falling into the vortex of void Searching for that odious rock-bottom absorbed by pettiness, the stone-hearted stoic has now mastered the art of stupor and deadness. Caressing those frail hands that were once mildly manicured hugged by precious rocks are now invaded by plastic lines and protruded veins. Can someone plead to time to halt the cruelty of this multiplication and metastasis? She sat there and stared into nothingness While the savage Gods watched the agony of a child and her Ma. It’s just another day About the author:
Tamizh Ponni VP is an ambivert who loves to express her skills through literature,visual arts and music . She has worked as an IB educator for 7 years and is currently pursuing her M.Tech, PhD integrated course in Data Science. Tamizh sees learning as a never-ending process and with technology integration, it gives her an interesting dimension to knowledge acquisition and skill-building. Her stories were featured in 2 anthology books, "Mia" and "Varna". Tamizh's articles, poems and paintings have also been published in many digital journals and educational blogs.Tamizh spends most of her free time painting, reading, writing articles, stories and poems, playing keyboard and watching documentaries/movies.
Dust to dust, we all fall down Brushed aside and lost Ash to ash and ‘round and ‘round Just souls to fire tossed He was a tall and handsome man And, oh, she heard him singing From the rooftops merrily Love’s fires with him bringing He said he was a chimney sweep And, oh, his beauty charmed her His coat was dark as raven’s wings His passion, it disarmed her His eyes were black as anthracite And, oh, his fire warmed her Her heart was stolen by the fae Though friends all tried to warn her In through her window he did dance And, oh he filled her nights Sylphid wings to bear her up And burn her with his might He had a devil’s fiery gaze And, oh his kiss was bold His lust was hot as any flame And yet his lips were cold And like a bird he flew away And, oh, the lies he whispered And when he took her everything He burned her heart to cinders Autumn nights too swiftly pass And, oh, the price was steep For when the fires had burned out She lay buried six feet deep old shadows growing cobwebs squeak of a bat NOTE: Unitalicised text is the work of Edward Cates. Italicised text is the work of Anna Cates. About the authors:
The late Edward Dana Cates (2/23/69-11/12/23) was a disabled househusband and writer/poet from Seymour, Indiana. He attended George Fox University and served on Deviant Art’s literature committee, where he acquired many mutual fans and friends. The original versions of his poems are fully illustrated a viewable at his online gallery: https://www.deviantart.com/barosus/gallery. Dr. Anna Cates teaches writing, literature, and education online and has published a variety of books (poetry, fiction, and drama) through www.cyberwit.net, prolificpress.com, redmoonpress.com, and wipfandstock.com. Her full-length poetry collection, Love in the Time of Covid, won an Illumination Book Award. She resides in Wilmington, Ohio with her two cats.
My lover is a graverobber I recall the taste of icy kisses As the moonlight slithers slowly Down porcelain smooth features Winds tousle iridescent plumage And her eyes are always burning Shining out of the plutonian void Binary stars blazing in darkness Her terrible gravity dragging me Upward from the sepulchral void Rousing me from my baleful repose To mount up and fly like she flies My heartbeat, the cadence of wings Bearing me up like a chthonic dream A caliginous angel soaring skyward Raven wings beating down the sky For her voice has beckoned me I rise and join her murder twilight . . . the melancholy color of complicity NOTE: Unitalicised text is the work of Edward Cates. Italicised text is the work of Anna Cates. About the authors:
The late Edward Dana Cates (2/23/69-11/12/23) was a disabled househusband and writer/poet from Seymour, Indiana. He attended George Fox University and served on Deviant Art’s literature committee, where he acquired many mutual fans and friends. The original versions of his poems are fully illustrated a viewable at his online gallery: https://www.deviantart.com/barosus/gallery. Dr. Anna Cates teaches writing, literature, and education online and has published a variety of books (poetry, fiction, and drama) through www.cyberwit.net, prolificpress.com, redmoonpress.com, and wipfandstock.com. Her full-length poetry collection, Love in the Time of Covid, won an Illumination Book Award. She resides in Wilmington, Ohio with her two cats.
oddly deformed into heart-shaped suitor’s rose bud As I wandered the windswept hills I chanced upon a timeworn redoubt Cloaked in a brooding bramble veil Clutching its secrets tightly within From behind whose dour shoulders Emanated a soft, mellifluous voice Like the expectancy of springtime But the walls were tall and barbed Engrailed with the cruelest thorns But the Orphean tones of the voice Compelled my captivated thoughts To see who was ensconced therein So, I fought past the wicked thorns And scaled the treacherous height And when I reached the top at last I gazed down into a secret garden Where you waited amid the flowers Smiling as if you had expected me atop the rock wall dripping with bog water the Frog Prince NOTE: Unitalicised text is the work of Edward Cates. Italicised text is the work of Anna Cates. About the authors:
The late Edward Dana Cates (2/23/69-11/12/23) was a disabled househusband and writer/poet from Seymour, Indiana. He attended George Fox University and served on Deviant Art’s literature committee, where he acquired many mutual fans and friends. The original versions of his poems are fully illustrated a viewable at his online gallery: https://www.deviantart.com/barosus/gallery. Dr. Anna Cates teaches writing, literature, and education online and has published a variety of books (poetry, fiction, and drama) through www.cyberwit.net, prolificpress.com, redmoonpress.com, and wipfandstock.com. Her full-length poetry collection, Love in the Time of Covid, won an Illumination Book Award. She resides in Wilmington, Ohio with her two cats.
(For when the leaves our summer friends have fallen)
newborn faces up outdoors beneath the trees skysent resonance swishes limbs respond by raising knees Skysent old images haunt me summer is no more angels, fairies sent to soothe me lie dead upon earths floor more falling ever daily the ground is gold and red brown dead veins are crisping revealing that they’re dead Lucifers angels fallen tuatha de danann’s on the mound A jealous god deceived them my god he can’t be sound then some who turned mid fall looked skyward bleak and bare there was no pull cept downward no hope and just despair but then the Cailleach fetched them she winters underground They nurture TREE forever now truth it knows no bounds the leaves they tell their stories, to worms, roots, and a breeze their mission is to nourish new growth for humans ease, and yet how could they do it if they did not know of grief when every angel blossoms when under some-borns sleep Their purpose is for spelling those born with life for hope angels always round us so that we always cope im grateful for the memory from the ground those faithful days I no longer believe in fairys or hawthorns special ways but I’m grateful for the magic of natures tale spun faes Faes=phase
He broke dawn with every utter of the pain He sought to bring me and gave to me When He said no one wanted a broken wheel which I was And he could not help me any more or had, or did he ever Years passed more likely a decade when he said he Had sympathy for me it was like he was making a deal with the devil To stretch out a comment that concluded this was an illness Not some made up myth, and it did not define me but it was a part of me He furthered the conversation with his conforming model of a response that Should have been a sign, a warning That he now was the poster child for the stigma I would face again once I braved my face with this condition out in the open once released or maybe now I was just now noticing him So I ran back into lockable closets in tainted rooms because if my brother Would not have me, how would society but I am my brother’s keeper still Then I heard a dial tone yet I do not remember him answering I do not recall him being present in my life Like he confessed But a message was left, and it stated I have no answer this life I have left meant for living was not for getting caught in telephone Chords in mental wards calling brothers who were emotionally gone And who were far from the wheels of my bike broken or not About the author:
Uzomah Ugwu is a poet/writer, curator, editor, and multi-disciplined artist. Her poetry, writing, and art have been featured internationally in various publications, galleries, art spaces, and museums. She is a political, social, and cultural activist. Her core focus is on human rights, mental health, animal rights, and the rights of LGBTQIA persons. She is also the managing editor and founder of Arte Realizzata.
Oldest memories and their origins, the highs that once roamed my dreams. Forever stuck in the photo frames, it is harder to smile now. Having held onto a long-lost self, he does not seem to let go. Lullabies play in the background, while I lay dozing in his blood drenched arms. Dreams fill the red canvas, the noose inches closer to the grey clouds. Long distances and the ticking of the clock, the clockwork has wound once more. My sleepless nights and my snoring cat, holds me in their blanket of comfort. Nelly stares at the crippling world around him, or so it seems to me. His thoughts and his desperation, just follies in my imagination. Always delving into the painted dreams, the sky have lost its warmth. Stuck in the cold, I wait for the warmth to return. About the author:
Gautham Pradeep, currently 22 yrs of age, was born in Kerala, India, in a town called Thalassery. He did his schooling in Bangalore and is now pursuing his MBBS course from Srinivas Institute of Medical Sciences and Research Center. He tries to explore the existential dilemmas of the present generation. Apart from writing poems, he indulges in butterfly breeding and painting occasionally.
Lost in those early morning whispers, thinking about a childhood, where darkness was just an illusion. Hands of the dusky sunrays, playing with the paltry foliage, too surreal to witness in this rational construct. Muddy puddles and the earthly aroma, both engulfing the confused, ill-tempered child. Holding onto the blessed heights, ethereal frames pass by, too quick to realize their inherent grief. Tearing up, after a lost childhood, feels better than the sunken ship, whose torn sails lay still. A forgotten comrade confiding in the solitude all around. Those gentle strokes on a dark, moonlit riverbank, lost in a self that I can talk to. Chills run down my spine, while I converse with the forgotten shores. Her eyes, soaked in centuries of disregard, covers her face, in a pool of bluish-white. An eternity of hiding, away from settlements built on sinking sand. Intoxicated by her anonymous disposition, those sea-shells glimmer in the midnight gloom. Shallow dreams I once harbored, oblivious to the cradle within my reach. Building a home near the seaside, loses her presence once and for all. The green gleaming leaves on a rainy day, seemingly confides in its private, lonely moment. Just as the waterfall in the distance, life looks as misunderstood as the greenish hues on a Pacific mussel. Bubbles we must cocoon ourselves in. A world to sink in the volcanic crater, lest we embrace the folly we must endure. In lieu of tethered feet, few continue to fly into the endless expanse. Flying into the hummingbird’s nest, she hears the cheerful chirping turn into mournful silence of the indifferent green. Well, I guess the silence would stay. My weary eyes looked at the moody sky, ever so slightly covered by the frosty clouds. Living into the afterlife, often confused between the latter and its anonymity. About the author:
Gautham Pradeep, currently 22 yrs of age, was born in Kerala, India, in a town called Thalassery. He did his schooling in Bangalore and is now pursuing his MBBS course from Srinivas Institute of Medical Sciences and Research Center. He tries to explore the existential dilemmas of the present generation. Apart from writing poems, he indulges in butterfly breeding and painting occasionally.
I can’t grow a poem – I can only pick it up, blindly from the ground or from the ether, writing off the heaviness that hangs about the heart. A SOFT LANDING I sigh softly with the earth her heartbeat in my centre and when all is lost and broken she gives me yet another in-breath! Lights the skies in colours of love - and I can’t turn her away. FOR ÉIRE Ireland I am lost in your cool damp greenery where ancient rocks relax on big fields and sunset is a wild card I wish to catch. I’ll never truly know you though you call yourself my turf. I’ll never know of another place so mysterious and yet so safe, so sound. SHADOW Sorry that you haven’t always seen the sunniest side of me sorry I’ve lately been bathed in dusk. All I ask is that you see, it’s simply another side to the same ‘me’. FORESTED The spiralled vine loves a tree to climb. And me, well, I am forested. My mind plants roots in things long past grows leaves before the season. About the author:
Ailbhe is an emerging artist and writer from the west of Ireland. She recently completed a Masters in Authorial Illustration at Falmouth University. Her background in yoga teaching, mindfulness and living in the wild informs her current poetic practice. Through her words and art she seeks to magnify the ordinary, everyday, sublime - to find wonder in the familiar. |
Disabled TalesDiscussing disabled characters in fairy tales and folklore! Categories
All
Archives
December 2024
|
RSS Feed
