Falling by Joan McNerney

Falling

On a steel car looking out my

window. How many times will

this bullet train spin off rail?

How many times must I ride

that dark horse called nightmare?

In air off course tumbling down falling.

Dangling on thick utility cables

over edge, through trees into lights,

crashing fast against buildings.

Now flying through space.

Careening in pitch black night,

my silver train shattering glass

falling, falling, falling.


Vivitar

Joan McNerney’s poetry has been included in numerous literary magazines such as Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Poet Warriors, Blueline, and Halcyon Days.  Four Bright Hills Press Anthologies, several Poppy Road Review Journals, and numerous Kind of A Hurricane Press Publications have accepted her work.  Her latest title, The Muse In Miniature, is available on Amazon and she has four Best of the Net nominations. 

 

 

 

Lost, Losing by Yuan Changming

Last month it was my cellphone

Last night, my back head, where was

Implanted a wrong chip. & last

Moment I found my mind missing

Going back along the way, I tried

To retrieve it from my rage against

A rude fellow driver. Then in a fit

Of joy about the first child I had.

Followed by a deep regret… until

I got confused between memory &

Imagination, the former stored in

The left chamber of my heart, the latter

In the right.

When it was over-

Whelmed with joy or bitterness, I

Cannot tell which is my true past

(Or my possible future) as it over-

Flows from memory to

Imagination; perhaps, with my protobeing

The two might be somewhat identical, or

Other (than) wise (?)

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Yuan Changming published monographs on translation before leaving his native country. Currently, Yuan lives in Vancouver, where he edits Poetry Pacific with Allen Qing Yuan. Credits include ten Pushcart nominations, Best of the Best Canadian Poetry (2008-17) and BestNewPoemsOnline, among others.

Ken Allan Dronsfield

Burning Solstice

In my early days of wandering;

July’s violet haze stirs from within.

Of wanton youth with many queries;

long in the tooth with misplaced piety.

Odiferous pleasantries of rose petals;

while lilacs speak with heavenly flair.

Children scamper through cold sprinklers;

laundry hangs waving in warm breezes.

Butterflies and bees dance upon flowers;

songbirds and robins bounce across lawns.

Blessed are days of the burning solstice;

memories smolder through sands of time.

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Ken Allan Dronsfield is a disabled veteran and prize winning poet from New Hampshire, but now resides on the plains of Oklahoma. Ken is a proud member of the Poetry Society of New Hampshire. He currently has three poetry collections; “The Cellaring”, 80 poems of light horror, paranormal, weird and wonderful work. His second book, “A Taint of Pity”, contains 52 Life Poems Written with a Cracked Inflection. Ken’s third poetry collection, “Zephyr’s Whisper”, 64 Poems and Parables of a Seasonal Pretense, and includes his poem, “With Charcoal Black, Version III”, selected as the First Prize Winner in Realistic Poetry Internationals 2018 Nature Poem Contest.  He’s been nominated three times for the Pushcart Prize and six times for the Best of the Net, 2016-2018. Ken loves writing, hiking, thunderstorms, and spending time with his cats Willa and Yumpy. 

Michael Lee Johnson

Unknown Poet from Rue Montpelier

By Michael Lee Johnson

I warned you darts with advice

strong words tripping over emotions

like an imbecile-

so you think you’re Leonard Cohen

loving some naked Nancy in a cluttered

matchbox apartment overlooking

European culture simulated,

above some obscure narrow

Montreal street?

For your information,

straight poetics from insanities Almanac,

Leonard Cohen died years ago

in a twisted pickle poem he

entitled “Narcissism.”

Do you and your welfare lover

desire to be the 2nd generation,

deceased, unnoticed, unheard of,

unwarranted for failure artists

inside this thin, onion-skinned wall

dingy with your dreams?

I warned you darts with advice,

tapering off with your impotence.


Michael Lee Johnson lived 10 years in Canada during the Vietnam era and is a dual citizen of the United States and Canada. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, amateur photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois. Mr. Johnson published in more than 1072 new publications, his poems have appeared in 38 countries, he edits, publishes 10 poetry sites. Michael Lee Johnson, has been nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards poetry 2015/1 Best of the Net 2016/2 Best of the Net 2017, 1 Best of the Net 2018. 186 poetry videos are now on YouTube https://www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videos. Editor-in-chief poetry anthology, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze: http://www.amazon.com/dp/1530456762; editor-in-chief poetry anthology, Dandelion in a Vase of Roses available here https://www.amazon.com/dp/1545352089. Editor-in-chief Warriors with Wings: the Best in Contemporary Poetry, http://www.amazon.com/dp/1722130717.

Do not forget to consider me for Best of the Net or Pushcart nomination!

Broadway.com

 

If ever at all, if only once

If you were

To have such a chance

Just keep driving

Drive forward

With no need to take a shoulder check

Despite so many beside you

Despite so much ahead & behind –

Along this new highway, your car

(Like your body or thought)

Will adapt its shape like a stream

Of water running its own course

From past to future, amidst

Programmed sapiens, through

The flow of data

Until at the meeting point

Between yin & yang

Between 0 & 1

Between history & imagination


Yuan Changming  published monographs on translation before leaving his native country. Currently, Yuan lives in Vancouver, where he edits Poetry Pacific with Allen Qing Yuan. Credits include ten Pushcart nominations, Best of the Best Canadian Poetry (2008-17) and BestNewPoemsOnline, among others.    

John Anthony Figelton

The Reader

 

He would sit on his daughter’s bed,

Reading tales before she’d sleep,

About the frog that turned into a prince,

Or the fairy folk of Hazel Weep.

She would listen so attentively,

Even to those old ones she had heard before,

Then, as her little eyes slowly closed,

He’d slip quietly out door.

 

Later he read in that little church,

When her mother passed away,

He choose the passages himself,

Reading them in his own exclusive way.

The Book of Psalms –with words of hope,

His sad voice strong, so all could hear.

‘Lord bring her to your holy mountain,

Send her light and your faithful care.’

 

Now she sits by her father’s bed,

Reading from his favourite books,

The poems of Yeats and Robert Frost,

 “The Soldier,” by Rupert Brooks.

Over the years, the table’s turned –

As so often is the case

The listener becomes the reader,

Waiting for the other one to sleep.

 

©John Anthony Fingleton  (Löst Viking)


John A

John Anthony Fingleton: He was born in Cork City, in the Republic of Ireland.  Poems published in journals and anthologies in Ireland, UK, USA, India and France as well as three plays produced. Poet of the Year (2016) Destiny Poets International Community. Poems read on Irish and American radio as well in Spanish on South American broadcasts. Contributed to four books of poetry for children.  Has poems published in numerous national and international journals, reviews, and anthologies. Poet of the Month (March 2019) Our Poetry Archive.  First solo collection ´Poems from the Shadowlands´ was published in November 2017, which is available on Amazon. Web https://lostvikingpoetryjohnanthonyfingleton.wordpress.com/

 

Ken Allan Dronsfield

Let me publish this again. I mistakenly put Ken Allan Dronsfield’s poem on my own page and not on Poetry Pasta. Which is great for me because I love Ken’s poems.  Not great for him because no one looks at my page.

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Sonnet 99, The Ebb and Flow

 

From atop a great stoic redwood tree

dragonflies fantasize of summertime;

of early warmer mornings, balmy winds

dodging gray flycatchers and green bullfrogs.

The grass is greener right beside the pond

a wolf pack howls, worshiping the full moon

the barn owls love a midnight stellar show

baby goslings enjoy the fresh sunrise.

the deep rivers and great bays ebb and flow

deer and elk enjoy the salty-sweet grass

wildflowers sprinkled upon rolling hills.

from within that great forest wakening

a cicada sings his mating sonnet

within the ebb and flow of life’s circle.

————————————————————————————————-

Ken Allan Dronsfield is a disabled veteran, prize winning poet and fabulist from New Hampshire, now residing on the plains of Oklahoma. His work can be found in The Burningword Journal, WestWard Quarterly, The Blue Mountain Review, Literary Orphans, Harbinger Asylum, EMBOSS Magazine and more. A proud member of the Poetry Society of New Hampshire, he currently has three poetry collections; “The Cellaring”, 80 poems of light horror, paranormal, weird and wonderful work. His second book, “A Taint of Pity”, contains 52 Life Poems Written with a Cracked Inflection. Ken’s third poetry collection, “Zephyr’s Whisper”, 64 Poems and Parables of a Seasonal Pretense, and includes his poem, “With Charcoal Black, Version III”, selected as the First Prize Winner in Realistic Poetry Internationals 2018 Nature Poem Contest.  He’s been nominated three times for the Pushcart Prize and six times for the Best of the Net, 2016-2018. Ken loves writing, hiking, thunderstorms, and spending time with his cats Willa and Yumpy.

Micheal Lee Johnson

Rain (v2)

In the rain,

this thunder

on his way home

he rebelled.

He a disco dancer,

single Friday night award winner

on the floor. High school dropout.

He drove off the road edge.

He was drunk, Jack Daniel’s

was his driving instructor.

Jack Daniel bottle left at grave.

It never rains in a dry casket.

Shelter under this roof,

no worries about cops

anymore.

Ria Banerjee

The Coffee Shop
At the farthest corner,
the winding street accommodates
an ancient coffee shop-
where the aroma of the freshly brewed Darjeeling tea
caresses your moist lips
and the robust essence of your concocted lies
ensnares my senses.
The steaming cup of tea,
the never-ending barrage of stories
entwine to form a wreath
of memories: each memory more
lingering, more poignant than
the wisps of smoke rising from your
endless cigarettes.
As you waited for the sugar beads to dissolve,
I stirred my fresh lime soda with a pinch of my burning passion.
The coffee shop ceased to exist when
you  and I sipped our beverages together.