Hac Sa Beach, Macao
Today the sea is so clear.
A mirror, yes, today
the sea is a mirror.
I can see in it the footprint
of the passing wind.
I can see in it my face—
my face in a thousand
The sea is granite:
the wind carves it.
The images are fleeting
so magical, so abstract
They can only be recaptured
in dreams, ah, only in dreams.
Papa Osmubal is currently completing his MA in English Studies at the University of Macau. His Chinese wife, Susanna Lei Kam Sio, and two children, Yeda Lei Man Lok, 5, and Yuri Lei Man Hou, 3, are practicing Buddhists. But Papa Osmubal believes in the inherent goodness in every creature, enough to regard him a Buddhist. To observe fraternity and unity, he never fails in joining his family in doing their 'Pai San' (Cantonese for 'worship'). His works have been included in various anthologies and publications, online and hardcopy.
ON A MORNING OF MORNINGS
Day preens with light. Pecks at its feathers
like a parrot. A succession of invisible shakes.
The earth creaks with the unfolding of its white
out of old night trunks. Dreams slip away
in drunken disgrace.
Movement. The world makes its spin obvious enough
that everything must stumble a little to keep
up. A night of coolness fizzes at the edge of warm waking
breath. Life is a tarantula feeling its surrounds with
Small epiphanies roll up on the shores of flesh.
I am the betrothed of the color blue.
I speak to the piebald butterfly. I wear that
ribbon of a river to tie my hair. I travel
by window sash-wheel up the side of the mountain.
Birdsong is a singular thread,
at the end of which, birds appear.
Bio: John Grey 's latest book is “What Else Is There?” from Main Street Rag. He has been published recently in Agni, Hubbub, South Carolina Review and The Journal Of The American Medical Association.
Seeing Red in Seville
Strolling along Seville's
simmered atop potted trees
east to west
orange polka dots
greeted natives and tourists
alike spreading sunshine
and smiles into siesta
Me and two gal pals
continued our cultural tour
of Spanish history
Three gypsy women
just up the hill
near an ancient church
for us foreigners,
the roses were lovely
but limited funds
Tapas, Paella, and Sangria,
not necessarily in that order
An insistent gypsy
accosted me...a red scarf?
anything blood red
maybe it was the roses
she was a matador
I was the unlucky bull
we briskly walked away
from the arena
I never wanted to enter
in the first place
Antonio, a Spanish waiter
bid us a handsome Hola
at the Cafe
where we dined
on postcard memories
and drank a toast
to Spanish gypsies
Six Sangrias later
lighter in the pocketbook
heavier in the culture
Antonio handed each of us
an adios adorned with
a lovely red rose...
gypsy not included
Sandy Hiss' poetry and fiction have appeared in Cabaret New Angeles, Autographs Mag, Eskimopie.net, Scorched Earth Publications (Editor's Choice Feb/Mar issue), Autumn Leaves, The Cat's Meow, & True Poet Mag. Her work will also be featured in Underground Window's July edition. Sandy resides in Wyoming with her two children and husband. She hopes to publish a chapbook in the near future. She can be reached at SandyB1070@msn.com
You placed a duet book
Over the Moonlight Sonata
And I, catching the unfinished quavers into my palms
Made room for you.
You in your blue cotton pyjamas
Pale in convalescence
Collar half up
Like your hair
Your voice husky
You spoke with your eyes.
Turning to Carmen, I counted us in
And we began the exchange,
The treble drifting from my fingertips
Joined by your two solitary bass notes,
And again, and again until we joined together
Melody and harmony building up in a frenzy,
Both of us out of our depth – you ill,
And I staggering through the semi-quavers after months
Away from the keys,
But still we hurtled through the difficult passages
Tackling each chord with the force of a Toreador
Determined not to lose,
A tremendous hiatus every time we turned the page
Before instinctually we’d crash back in together
Your feverish body resonating with the effort
While my brain tried desperately to command
My sluggish fingers.
We hit the largo and breathed simultaneously
As we paused to absorb each others harmonies
Our movement mirroring the melodic line.
We neared the end
The climaxing cadence
Each time with more force than before
We both bowed our heads
For each perfect chord
And the final tremolo.
And I never told you
That your pyjama top was inside out.
Emma Tatnall has just finished an MA in Creative Writing in Britain
and is currently living in York where she enjoys working as a care
assistant. However, she has just embarked on a career as a community arts worker and is keen to use her skills to help others enjoy the arts.
She has an interest in the crossover of different arts mediums, particularly music as an inspiration for writing.
Bio: Ann-Marie Spittle has been writing poetry off and on for 20 years, and her works range from War to spiritual poetry. She has had some pieces published by Forward Press, and Distant Echoes.