Many thanks to all contributors.
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 SARA L. RUSSELL Poet,
cartoonist and short story writer. Founder of Poetry Life & Times.
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Sara L. Russell Romantic Writer(2006) The pen descends to kiss the virgin page. I wonder what the muse will bring today? Beset by random thoughts at every stage, And butterfly ideas that fly away. The fluctuating dalliance of dreams, Dealing in light transgressions of the mind, Drawn into mischief, as into bright streams; Cool, soothing fantasies of every kind. The pen descends to kiss the virgin page: "He leans down to caress the woman's cheek; The lovers' lips deliciously engage, Transcending all necessity to speak." All names are changed, in false identity; No-one may trace the heroine to me. (Sonnet inspired by "Reader, I Married Him" documentary, BBC4)  Ode to John Lennon (2006) Are you craving a solution to political confusion? Do you dream of revolution in your palaces of cloud? Do you know how much we miss you (memory is mere illusion), Or how many times your woman burns to call your name aloud? Colour the academic with the spice of psychedelic, Let Shankar play the sitar for a cavalcade of stars. The present is the gift of Now, the past only a relic, Let rich dudes shake their jewellery through the sunroofs of their cars. Do you still dream of the vision of an end to all religion? Are there quasars in your eyes as you relax and float downstream, Imagining a world living in peace, without submission, Can Yes still be the answer, for a man who dares to dream? We are lost in introspection in a world of imperfection, Waiting for the resurrection of the loved and left-behind, We are wading through the vestige of a shimmering reflection Of tomorrows never lying, in backwaters of the mind. You were love’s emancipation, sweet desire’s anticipation, You were heavenly elation deep in Yoko’s half-moon eyes. No man of clay were you, but spun of rich imagination; You’re heroic in the minds of fans, where all fantasy flies. We are deep in contemplating an eternity of waiting, We are skating on uncertainty through worlds of distant past; Your muse whispered of love when hate’s protagonists were prating; You went the way of everything too beautiful to last. |
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LELAND JAMIESON Leland Jamieson, a
performing
arts center manager for most of his working life, is retired and lives
in East Hampton, Connecticut, USA. His recent and forthcoming work
appears in *Bellowing Ark, Blue Unicorn, Candelabrum, Raintown Review*
and *3rd* Muse. He has gathered many of his published formal poems,
some with streaming audio, under the title *Needles in a Pinewood* at
www.geocities.com/lelandjamieson. He is hawking a longer book
manuscript by the same title. Major influences on his work, after
Shakespeare, of course, are Robert Frost, William Carlos Williams,
Wallace Stevens, William Stafford, and Timothy Steele. |
Are We Ever Free The Anunnaki? © Leland Jamieson Reflecting on Zecharia Sitchin’s *Earth Chronicles,* on 9/11, and on “Terrorism.” * *1. Prologue* When Big Bang stardust coalesced in Sun, in Earth and sister planets that we see, one of these, now named “Nibiru,” was spun in an ellipse which strains credulity. This great ellipse makes her part absentee, as thirty-six — note — *hundred!* — summers warm us ‘fore she streaks through our astronomy. Clay tablets narrate this in cuneiform. *2. Origins* Her people, the “Anunnaki,” aimed to form a colony to mine Earth’s veins for gold. (Milled to reflecting dust, it would transform their thinning ozone shield. Their plan was bold.) But Anunnaki laborers weren’t sold. Greatly abused, they quit, would not be bound despite how folks on Nibiru cajoled — or cursed green produce sun bent down to ground. They searched Earth’s fauna, probed all life. They frowned. Earth’s every creature had, for brains, a lith. They monkeyed with their genes. Results were crowned with “half-men, half-beasts” (source of Grecian “myth”). Invitro trials at last revealed the pith. They paired ape ova, Anunnaki sperm — and Anunnaki wombs first bore as kith us *Homo Sapiens:* slave-born, bonded firm . . . . We male-slaves, super-sexed like them, would worm our miner’s rest from females estrus-free. They bore us “gold-dig-kids” bound to affirm our Lords as *“gods,* come down to land and sea.” *3. Anarchy* Two times our ‘gods’ fled up from the anarchy we soldiering male-slaves wreaked with slings and swords (we’d learned to wield them by keen mimicry of sibling infighting among our Lords): Fled first when Nibiru’s elliptic towards the Sun veered too near Earth, and drew south seas above Mount Ararat’s high crags and wards and left mere wrack for tidal refugees. Down — from safe orbit — to our shores’ debris, our ‘gods’ helped Noah’s kin to find fresh springs . . . . They wed our females — crowned their progenies, to govern us unruly folk, our kings . . . . But Sodom’s puppets would not dance from strings and plotted constant chaos as they boozed. Our ‘gods’ again fled up on rockets’ wings, dropped seven nukes, and left dark Sinai bruised. Huge mushroom clouds northeastern skies suffused . . . . The cuneiform relates with grave finesse the reek in Sumer — human flesh which oozed beneath that radioactive sullenness . . . . *4. Epilogue* Now Moslems, Christians, Jews add new distress, see Deity in ‘god’-masks each adores, implores them, “Grant our Holy War success” — *this* with self-righteousness each ‘god’ abhors! Is *Deity* best known through paramours of gold? — those Anunnaki in its thrall? — through slave descendants stretching metaphors? — *Divine Intelligence, Creator of All?* * NOTES: A DOZEN CONTEMPORARY QUESTIONS: 1) How account for a Base-60 number system recorded 5,000 years ago in cuneiform on clay tablets dug up in Iraq? 2) Are 21st century Earth scientists the first to theorize on plugging a planet’s ozone hole with reflective gold dust? 3) Why have no direct links to hominids immediately antecedent to Homo Sapiens been discovered? 4) Where did the half-man, half-beast figures in Greek Mythology come from? 5) Why has the human female no estrus? Why is the male obsessed with sex, gold, violence, terror? 6) What gave rise to the Biblical 3-story universe – Heaven above, Earth at our level, Hell beneath us? 7) What could account for a flood of the proportions recorded in the Genesis story of Noah and the Ark? 8) Where, and when, and why did the notion of the Divine Right of Kings originate? 9) Why is much of the surface limestone of the southern Sinai Peninsula, normally sandy-colored, glazed black? 10) What, in 2024 BCE, made Sumer (in present-day Iraq) suddenly a ghost city? Why is the southwestern Dead Sea shore radioactive today? 11) How can Jews, Christians, Moslems commit fratricide in “holy” wars against each other in the name of the god each worships if there is, as each says, only one God, and each have a common creation story saga drawn from the cuneiform-based Akkadian *Gilgamesh Epic?* 12) What accounts for advanced-culture artifacts found in South African and South American gold mines? Copyright © Leland Jamieson 2006. |
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JIM DUNLAP |
Jim Dunlap A Sinister Synaesthesia for Muddled Receptors By seeing things so differently In so many different ways, Backgrounds and environments Determine most things every day. Experiences delineate How we live and why ‑‑ But conforming to another's views Just makes us live a lie. We dissect the life we're living To evaluate expenditures, And probe the outer limits Demarcating life's parameters. Yet, as these shift with cirumstance To some more salubrious clime, We retroanalyze ourselves In vain...time after time. But what's truly most amazing Through life's every curtain call Is that, despite our differences, We communicate at all. A Fortune's Slipping Through Your Grasp How can winning be defined? They say the race is to the swift... Priorities should be aligned To give us all a psychic lift. As we struggle through each passing day, Each fleeting second is a gift. We can't bid the passing hours to stay, Or dictate how the dice are tossed ‑‑ Yet flying seconds tick away. So with each passing minute lost, We're poorer than we were before ‑‑ And nearer to that final frost. If Someone, somewhere's keeping score, Why end a beggar at Death's door? Occam´s razor... or who saved the barber? We think our civilization Is a wonder, without peer -- Sandwiched between ice ages, We're lucky to be here. In all the world's long history, There've not been many times When the race of man could have evolved In such beneficial climes. Do you think it was an accident That things worked out this way; And luck that man did not appear When dinosaurs held sway? I'd like to think that there's a point, Or some thing accomplished here -- But we truly just despoil and burn... My, how the gods must leer. And when the ice age comes again, Will we be here to see it; Or will we simply self-destruct In a misanthropic fit? Altruism Burning Bright She crouches in twilights of evil dreams, softly crying, bemoaning her losses, choking back her anguished screams, imagining loved ones draped on crosses. Maybe dead, maybe dying, hung in agony, crucified by monsters who'd rape and kill -- hanging Elfmen on dark pillars of ebony, drinking their pain till at last they're still. She wallows in knowledge of ages past, and of grave horrors still due to arrive -- her companion Elfwomen cling to the last, to the final seconds that they're alive, praying to gods who view them as beasts, and condemn them to rapine and death, or to be the main course of awful feasts -- they choke and gasp for each fading breath. But she waits in the nude, gulping her food, knowing that she's the one chosen for him -- cowed and broken, finally subdued, destined at last to languish in sin as the concubine of this vile creature she's hidden a knife, deadly but small, His wound won't yield to needle or suture, and he won't have time for a final call. She knows his followers are evil too, yet he prepares their foul witches' brew, and without him the evils that they might do will stir up rebellions they'll learn to rue. Her blade will end this human's deeds, and her death will resurrect her people. She'll prove that the mightest human bleeds, despite the cross on that ivory steeple. If you spare a prayer for this hapless maid, remember she chose her manner of dying, and no matter which way your paths are laid, fighting for right, it's your souls you're buying. Lift a cup to toast her brave heart, and remember to make a wish for you -- When the final curtain tears us apart, like her, we'll stay, steadfast and true. What callous deeds besmirch our land, but we won't deign to serve the dark. We'll stand together on Jove's right hand, in remembrance of her last bloody mark. She saved us all, bright Elven kind, and lit a fire that warms our lives -- Though we join at last the Eternal Mind, we're rid of those men and their iron knives. © 2006 Jim Dunlap. |
 Alexander
Shaumyan
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Alexander Shaumyan God Bless the Freaks God bless the freaks And the deranged, The ones who are Violent and strange, God bless the retards And the geeks. God bless the butches And the femmes, God bless all those We condemn, God bless the brainless And the meek. God bless the lowlives Riding bikes And punks in leather Wearing spikes, God bless the water And the piss. God bless the beer And the sun, God bless the soldier And his gun, God bless the bombs That kill the kids. God bless you all For being numb, God bless the dead, God bless Vietnam, And thousands more That will be killed. God bless all those Who don't think, Who scratch their ass And have a drink, God bless their shit That doesn't stink. God bless the holy And the wise, God bless the moon And the sunrise, God bless the war, God bless the lies, God bless this world About to sink. God bless the poem, God bless the muse, God bless abusers And abused, God bless your cock, Your ass and tits. God bless your mom, God bless your dad, God bless the sane, God bless the mad, God bless the ones Who cannot speak. God bless all those Who say: "God bless", While working more And earning less, While blessing their Oppressive pricks. God bless you all, I say to you, This world you see Is nothing new-- Whether it's cursed, Ignored or blessed-- It is our home Nonetheless. Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan Anarchy Is For Lovers (for Natércia) They came together--red and black-- In a revolt like no other, And there is no turning back, For anarchy is for lovers. The truth is greater than the lies Of hollow gods and class divisions, For loving hearts all rules defy With a transcendent common vision. No wars, no boundaries, no states, No need to subjugate each other, No rich, no poor, no one to hate-- Just peace and love for one another. They came together--young and old-- No hippie freaks, but with a vision-- They came together in revolt Against all wars and all divisions. They saw the truth, they saw the light In a revolt like no other, Standing determined in their fight, For anarchy is for lovers. Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan The World Is Full of Bastards (for Allen Ginsberg) Bastards! Bastards! Bastards! Bastards! Bloody bastards! The world is full of them! Everybody is a BASTARD! Buddha is a bastard, Mohammed is a bastard, Krishna is a big bastard! All bastards! Jesus Christ is the biggest bastard! Crucify that bastard! White bastards, yellow bastards, black bastards, We have bloody bastards of all colors, Jewish bastards, Christian bastards, Hindu bastards, Muslim bastards, born-again bastards, religious bastards, STOP BEING SUCH BLOODY BASTARDS! atheist bastards, Commie bastards, capitalist pig bastards, Feminist bastards, racist bastards, sexist bastards, peace movement bastards, insurance bastards, my family are all bastards, bastards! your mother is such a bastard! hippie bastards, punk rocker bastards, fascist Nazi bastards, bastards, all bastards! Hitler is a bastard! Martin Luther King, Jr. is another bastard! All bastards! Bastard this! Bastard that! Bastard your father! Bastard your sister! And your brother, another bloody bastard! Lao-Tzu is a bastard! intellectuals are bastards! I AM THE BIGGEST BASTARD! I'M TIRED OF ALL OF YOU BASTARDS, SCREWING UP MY LIFE! Psychiatrists are bastards, homosexuals are bastards! Allen Ginsberg, you are a bastard! But you probably know that already! Gooks, niggers, kikes, spics, honkeys, all bastards! Virgins are bastards! Rednecks are bastards! Married couples are bastards! I love you, honey, but you are such a bastard! YOU BASTARDS TAKE YOURSELVES TOO SERIOUSLY! YOU BASTARDS HAVE NO SENSE OF HUMOR! Stop polluting the bloody environment, you bloody bastards! Stop masturbating! Take away your fucking nuclear arms! You can't fuck with nuclear arms! BLOODY BASTARDS! I'm going to call the bloody police on you bastards! That will show you! Bloody church bastards, why don't you give some money to the poor bastards! And I'm fed up with the rich bastards! All presidents are bastards! REAGAN IS A BASTARD! GORBACHEV IS A BASTARD! THEIR WIVES ARE THE BIGGEST BASTARDS! Yes, the world is full of bastards! Only some bastards think themselves better than other bastards! And that's how the wars start: ONE BASTARD GETS UPSET WITH ANOTHER BASTARD AND THEY DROP BOMBS ON EACH OTHER! My father wants to kill my mother, and I want to kill my wife and kids! But we are all bloody bastards, homosexual or not! Don't give me that GOOD BASTARD crap! We are all the same bastards! Charlie Manson is no worse than your father! THAT'S RIGHT, YOU BLOODY BASTARDS! Poets are the biggest bastards, They take themselves too seriously, And if you don't like my poem, YOU ARE A BASTARD! Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan Beyond the Constellations of the Bears for Crystal On this day of cerulean bears That across silent eyelashes ran, I foresee past blue waters a stirring In the hollows of eyes--a command. --Velimir Khlebnikov (1885-1922) Beyond the constellations of the Bears I see reflections of the ancient gods And I can see the moon inside your hair, Feeling the music pulsing in my blood. Beyond the ruins of forgotten cities, Beyond the battlefields where myriads died, Beyond religions, wars and hollow treaties, I see the ancient wisdom in your eyes. Let daily sermons fall upon deaf ears, Let prophets come and go as they please, Let churches go on exploiting fear-- The truth is the wind, the rocks, the trees-- It's what I know in my heart, it's what you know Each time I look inside your playful eyes, And when it's time for you and me to go, The truth is in our love that never dies. Copyright © by Alexander Shaumyan |
I am a part time free lance journalist, EFL teacher, struggling
creative writer, world traveler, and would be actress residing
currently in London, Ontario though I have also lived in London,
England, Paris, Athens and India and have travelled in
Turkey, Iran, Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Nepal as well as most of the
countries in Europe, but I still call Toronto home. I have
written three children’s books which I am trying to get published as
well as a novella and lots of poetry. My interests include anything to
do with the arts. Or if the opportunity arises -travel! I
have an Honours BA in English from the University of Toronto and speak
French fluently as well as passable Italian and German. My poetry
and essays, and articles have been published in a number of online
magazines and a few print magazines such as Qwerty, Bywords, Ascent,
Electric Acorn, Ygdrasil, Great Works, Scriberazone, 7:24, The Mag,
Another Toronto Quarterly ,Poetry Niederngasse, Mindfire, Krytia,
Tryst, Autumn Leaves, Quills, Ancient Heart, North South, and I
have had several articles published in The Globe and Mail, and
the London Free Press.. I am currently working on a novel
called That Winter in Paris and to keep sane I do volunteer work
with refugees. |
Donna Bamford My Trip to Toronto (2006)
The sky silver and gold,
with grey clouds and sunlight as if it might snow and the fields full of dried wildflowers in browns and golds and greys and the leaves on the trees russet and brown and dusty green. reminiscent of a Dutch painting I once saw the landscape growing more northern and piney as we drew towards Toronto
and finally the blue lake to the south
my lake and Toronto, my home town that shaped me like an anvil. The familiar streets, Queen Street West, the cafes, the shops, the Danforth, the art gallery so sophisticated
Bamford
so elegant one would think one was in Paris. And Cabbagetown, the red brick houses the charming gardens, and yet here and there the homeless people more frequent now than when I left ten years ago Disturbing and sad, The gap between rich and poor has grown Why I fondly ask? Right wing politics marginalizing the fragile? One could not get away from it I wonder if I would ever get used to it a canker in the rose. La Vie en Rose At Place de la Bastille, the marina, on a sailboat, like Anais Nin, I am aboard my houseboat I shall have duck a l’orange for dinner The spirit of Paris is like a coquette, seductive, beautiful aware of her beauty, yet charming stylish and gay and witty, The spirit of Rome Is like a voluptuous older woman with many lovers, young and old she is a mistress and a mother a doyenne, the spirit of Florence is masculine, an artist, a sculptor, an architect, and they are all holy all the cities and towns and villages of Europe, in my eye through rose-coloured lenses, and one day I shall shuffle off this puritanical soil and finally go home to where my heart lies Clouds I have Known Spanish clouds, sombrero-like, Sunset clouds in Nassau, the sky afire with texture and meaning, clouds on the wind wind -tossed like apple blossom, cathedral clouds shot with shafts of sunlight from heaven purple clouds, black clouds, blue clouds, yellow clouds, pink clouds, tangerine clouds they all have their different personalities Oh I have been a lover of clouds in all their different moods, from diaphanous to lethal. © All poems by Donna Banford, 2006. |
JAMES ROBERT CAMPBELL (and Ruth)
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James Robert Campbell Morning and Other Poems Slow air Sweetly Moist, Darkness Lightly Peeling, Wings of Things are Bustling, Fecund Soil Fumes, and Shadows Shrink to Hardness. Carnations Raindrops Plunge To their deaths, Splashing Dust Carnations. Froth is Made of Boulders Sticks and froth shoot forward in the river. Boulders sway and tumble on the bottom. Even the fish cannot resist; they stop Within the calms to let their colors bleed. Even the bed and bank are soft to the river¹s Rub and cut. Nothing the river touches Holds itself in place. Sticks are bright From river fish. Froth is made of boulders. I Love The Poet Gerard Manley Hopkins I love the poet Gerard Manley Hopkins. Constrained by his high calling, he wrote on napkins As the other priests ate in the church Chow hall. The words and rhythms would lurch And leap like a whale harpooned and protesting fate While he was known for picking at the clerical plate And smiling benignly to his brethren before Composing another tumultous line. The lore Of ancients lined his life, but the Wreck of the Deutschland Was a modern event; and Hopkins with a steady hand: ³A love glides lower than death.² Of course The magazine editor for the church was a horse, And he told the diffident poet the poem did Not meet current requirements. Duty said To put aside indulgences and pray Without ceasing, and so he did until he lay On a stone bed and died at forty-four, Poetic voice stilled and soul sore From imperfection, conflicting God and art, Conflicting the immortal spirit and the human heart. The Tarantula's Brain Things, including me, are slow Like tarantulas in Old Mexico: Bad to see and worse to know, Clod to post to alpenglow -- Colors cool, mirage that is Soothing to the mental fizz That clouds the tarantula¹s brain, and his Is nowhere near the current whiz That I¹m contending with. Free it From your boot and let it be. It Runs for its life, as might befit A creature you kill when you first see it. © Copyright 2006 by James Robert Campbell |
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The Alchemy Post An online poetry journal and contemporary visual artists' gallery, coedited by poets D. Haar and Jim Dunlap. |
One of the best Spanish journals on music, cinema and poetry, edited by poet and artist Tesa Duncan.
Autumn Leaves
An US-based online poetry journal.
Voices for Africa Edited by Jim Dunlap |
