Poetry
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Hac Sa Beach, Macao
by
Papa Osmubal
I
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
shattered shards.
II
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.
Bio:
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.
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ON A MORNING OF MORNINGS
by
John Grey
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 many hands.
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.
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Seeing Red in Seville
by
Sandy Hiss
Strolling along Seville's cobblestone streets orange potpourri 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 taking snapshots of Spanish history
Three gypsy women just up the hill near an ancient church selling rosebuds inflated prices for us foreigners, the roses were lovely but limited funds were for 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
She relented-- 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
BIO: 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 |
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Silently
by
Emma Tatnall
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 Just washed. 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 Hands crossing 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. And then Grandioso We neared the end The climaxing cadence Repeated Each time with more force than before We both bowed our heads For each perfect chord In unison And the final tremolo.
You turned Smiled And I never told you That your pyjama top was inside out.
Bio:
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. |
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Empyrean Dreams
by
Ann Marie-Spittle
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. |
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