Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. While I was at the gas station I overheard two men talking about the lowered gas pr ices. They agreed it must be a Thanksgiving gift. I am thankful that I could buy gas, that I have a vehicle that uses gas, my health, and brains to be able take our hamster to a vet that knows hamsters. I am thankful for my family and friends and for ALL help I have received this year (getting unstuck, moving heavy things, etc), plus I am thankful to Thomas Hill Publishing for liking my words and taking a chance on them :)
Malobi Sinha has been a contributor here on PoetryPasta! Congratulations Malobi :) Download Malobi’s poems! They’re excellent :)
Praise for “Rain”:
‘Rain’ is a third Book of Poetry by author Malobi Sinha – poems to comfort, soothe…excite and satisfy the soul.
“Malobi Sinha writes poems of suppleness and emotional candour… Although Australia is rich in poetic talent like Ms Sinha…the rewards of her poetry are many, and her poems encourage repeated readings, growing richer and more complex each time.”
Phillip A. Ellis, Author, Editor Melaleuca
“There is a freshness and vibrancy in Malobi Sinha’s poems that I for one have rarely encountered in the otherwise Byzantine mazes of much contemporary poetry. The complex layers of meaning in her poems, beneath their often apparent simplicity, rewards the reader at every turn.”
Graham Pitts, Screenwriter
yay Marianne :)
Originally posted on Potomac Review Blog:
Searching for sweet red peppers on sale.
Recalling how my income has fallen.
Touching edges of anxiety
maybe my mind is misplaced or
some new disease invades me.
My caged heart rebels against looming panic.
All those wars…this planet growing
more pustulant as clocks choke forward.
What have I forgotten at the grocery store?
I want to be sure, swift not grasping,
Slivers of black ice can knock me down.
Misplaced, silenced, lost with yesterday’s lists,
mixed among crumpled coupons, long lines.
Joan McNerney’s poetry has been included in numerous literary magazines such as Camel Saloon, Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Blueline, Spectrum, three Bright Hill Anthologies and several Kind of A Hurricane Publications. She has been nominated three times for Best of the Net. Four of her books have been published by fine small literary presses.
I heard this on the radio this morning. This video is FULL of photos for inspiration. Do you have a Thanksgiving or turkey poem? Send it to PoetryPasta!
The second contest honors musician and songwriter Gene Clark who was born in November 1944. Clark had a varied career, starting off in folk (New Christy Minstrels), then helping to create folk-rock with the Byrds, and then veering off into country and beyond. Unfortunately, for various reasons, including his fear of flying in an airplane and his substance abuse, his career was not a successful one. More than twenty years after his death, his album No Other is receiving the acclaim it deserves. This year Beach House, Iain Matthews, and other musicians have toured, performing the songs from that album. And this fall some of you may be writing poems inspired by them…or other songs by Clark.
you’ve probably heard this song :)
I had never heard this song, I like it :)
These are just 2 examples of Byrds songs, for LOTS more Gene Clark inspiration, go to
I was made for the sun,
but here I am in Augusta.
At Christmas, the snow
is as real as ground glass,
and the Three Kings,
are just statues,
less than the live dogs
around St. Patrick’s manger.
All summer mi hijos played baseball,
and I shivered in the stands,
drinking café con leche
from a thermos.
The sun gave no more heat
than a postcard of Florida.
My brown thighs shriveled
left on the counter.
I covered them in mom jeans.
All winter I sit, huddled
indoors in a white parka
bought from a catalog.
I drink Café Bustelo,
straight, no leche,
my gloved hands around
a thermos from the bank.
Neighbors hike to the ski lift
on the edge of town.
The men balance six-packs
on their shoulders.
No one else winces at the wind,
the snow, the sleet,
the black ice,
the wind and the sleet
that pound at my windows
like someone else’s bad lover.
My sons play hockey.
I keep them busy.
They are made for Augusta
Published in the anthology “Something’s Brewing”
by AJ Huffman
check out Marianne’s blog “The Song Is” here:
There is absolutely nothing lonelier
than the little Mars rover
never shutting down, digging up
rocks, so far away from Bond street
in a light rain. I wonder
if he makes little beeps? If so
he is lonelier still. He fires a laser
into the dust. He coughs. A shiny
thing in the sand turns out to be his.
About this poem:
I was coming out of a bar in Manhattan in the rain at night. I felt lonely. Then I thought: there is nothing lonelier than that little guy up there on Mars, never shutting down. And if he’s beeping up there, how much lonelier still, that no one can hear it. Still, I like to think the engineers designed him to beep.
I love short poems :) VB
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-calendar-of-sonnets-november/ – audio version of November
Text version of November:
This is the treacherous month when autumn days
With summer’s voice come bearing summer’s gifts.
Beguiled, the pale down-trodden aster lifts
Her head and blooms again. The soft, warm haze
Makes moist once more the sere and dusty ways,
And, creeping through where dead leaves lie in drifts,
The violet returns. Snow noiseless sifts
Ere night, an icy shroud, which morning’s rays
Willidly shine upon and slowly melt,
Too late to bid the violet live again.
The treachery, at last, too late, is plain;
Bare are the places where the sweet flowers dwelt.
What joy sufficient hath November felt?
What profit from the violet’s day of pain?