Poetry Page 1

My Cup of Tea

by Rinzu Rajan

The petite gloss of the evergreen shrub
Dried, battered and gilded
To form black granules
Or powdered and cased in foiling
Is the beverage called tea
That which when opened
Sways in the caves of my nostrils
An aroma of the dawning sun
Drizzled in pearls of rain
Glazed in emerald.

Simmering in the kettle
Shrouded by steam
The milk, water and sugar
Unite in concord
With cardamom veering
To the music of peppermint
Imbrued in the crescendo
Of roses and chamomile,
This creates the perfect sonata
That caresses the olfactory
Mummified in sloth
To curb my apathy.

The first thing in the morning
And a wonted cup for the evening
With about five potions
To nip lethargy in its bud
But most of all
One for the night
To curb my hypersomnia
While memorizing wisdom
An elixir for migraine
And my best friend
In my late night
Literary pursuits.

Bio: Rinzu writes:

I started writing in early 2007 after a personal debacle and since
then have been writing poetry and short stories. Although I have no
formal training in creative writing I managed to break the ice by
attending workshops and events to sharpen my skills. Since then I
haven’t looked back and the ink has flowed off my pen in concourse.

I believe that poetry is a wonderful gift and with encouraging support
from other poets the gift of words can be perfected and the art can be
carried to a level of gracility that appeals to the layman as well as
the authors. I'm a formal poet and have written in more than 30 forms.

Tis The Season

by Carolyn Wolfe

In the winter

the city shivers

like a woman

with no lover

A man

with no child to come home to

Like a bereft dancer

who has lost her step

mid-dance

Center stage

Christmas

causes the branches

of the city

to wear braces

of tinsel teeth

which look almost ugly

trying to keep the spirit alive

Snow turns to grit

Grit

turns into a dangerous ice phase

and the squeal of tires

becomes as common

Christmas carols

on a noonday street

And

in the place where no one is looking

there is no Christmas

only sadness, despair and longing

looking at the glitz and glamour

with eyes dulled

from pain

Christmas in the city

gives lonliness

a bad name...

Bio : Carolyn Wolfe is a free-lance writer and author of five books, with a sixth book in the process of being published. Her body of work includes two children's books "The Unhappy Little Dragon, Lessons Begin, and"The Bedtime Of The Sky and Other Sleepy Bye Stories. two collections of poetry, "When The Moon Speaks" and "Notes From The Shadow Self." and her first collection of her original short fantasy stories, for a young adult audience, "The Moonsparrow Collection". Carolyn Wolfe is an animal activist and advocate of human rights. Her passion for animals and her advocacy for creating a better world for our children to grow up in, is the subject of many of her poems and stories. Ms. Wolfe currently coordinates local poetry events in The Shenandoah Valley, where she lives with her husband, artist/photographer Scott Wolfe, and her many animal companions.Carolyn's poem, The Picture, (Winter 2010, GSJ) was nominated for The Pushcart Prize.

Ev'ry Rung Goes Higher, Higher

by Gale Acuff

Sunday School today was about Jacob's

ladder and we sang that song where you stand

and use your arms as if you're climbing and

call yourself a soldier of the Cross. I

don't know what that means, exactly, but

it's a good tune. Miss Hooker's our teacher

and she led us, with her red hair and green

eyes, and mouth that was just made for smiling,

she can open it so wide and if I

had sat closer instead of way in back

I would've seen into the bottom of her

belly. Which reminds me of Jonah and

the whale, or should I say Jonah in it.

We were all climbing and climbing and I

could see her shoulders, which look soft, each time

she got higher. I've seen her hands and arms

--and legs, of course, I mean where they end at

her skirt, which my mother says is too short

but Father just laughs and then she gives him

that look that means they may be married but

Shut up or maybe Shut up because they

are. Where was I? I could see her knees, too,

each time one of her legs moved up a rung,

and that was nice, seeing so much of her

but I know why Mother would disapprove

although I can't explain it--a feeling

I got from watching her, not just watching

but climbing along with her, stroke for stroke.

I'm only 10, there's a lot I don't get,

but I know that when you're married you sleep

together and not just sleep but other

stuff in the dark in your room and sometimes

you make sure it's locked, like my parents

do at least on Friday nights and every

so often Saturday nights, too, and then

there's the night before Christmas and New Year's

Eve. And their birthdays. But not Halloween.

You can read in there and watch TV and

listen to the radio and play cards

and laugh and cry and sometimes both at once.

And if there's a keyhole you should block it

so no one can peek in. Not that I do.

I think that Miss Hooker is 25

but to be so old she's in good shape if

I'm any judge--Father is but he's mum

when Mother brings her up and then he tries

not to smile or looks out the window or

clears his throat a couple of times and says

he's out of Winstons and where are Mother's?

When we got finished with Jacob's ladder

Miss Hooker was sweating a little, though

with ladies I should say perspiring, but

that's a rose by any other name, like

Jesus said, or maybe Liberace

or the weather girl on the evening news.

We all sat down--I guess we made it there,

to Heaven I mean--but I felt warmer

and I always figured Heaven for mild,

not too cold and certainly not too hot,

something like the Piggly Wiggly grocery

where we shop each Saturday. And next time

I'm going to save my twenty-five cents'

allowance and buy Miss Hooker something

nice, candy or bubble gum or a ring,

but it can't be too fancy at that price,

and give it to her after Sunday School

next week, the ring I mean, and put it on

her finger myself, if she'll let me and

if it's not too little and her finger's

not too fat. That will mean she's my girlfriend

if she takes it--and me along with it,

of course--but if she turns me down she'll still

be polite about it and I'll tell her,

Well, no one sings Jacob's Ladder like you

and when I saw you sweating--perspiring,

I mean--something happened to me and that's

love so please think twice before you turn me

down else why should I feel this way and it

be wrong? That should shut her up and yet I

want to see her make her mouth so big

and stretch her lips and show her tongue and gums

and her teeth like sugar cubes while she climbs

and climbs and climbs and finally reaches

Heaven and I came along for the ride.

When we get married we'll have our own

room and we'll do a lot of other things

I bet my parents don't, like hug and kiss

and make babies, though I'm not good at that

--maybe she can show me, she's old enough

to know--and see each other naked, which

might be nearly as good as seeing

God, or as close as you can get on earth.

Bio: Gale Acuff has had poetry published in Ascent, Ohio Journal, Descant, Adirondack Review, Worcester Review, Verse Wisconsin, Sequential Art Narrative in Education, Poem, South Carolina Review, Carolina Quarterly, Maryland Poetry Review, Florida Review, Amarillo Bay, South Dakota Review, Santa Barbara Review, and many other journals. She has authored three books of poetry: Buffalo Nickel (BrickHouse, 2004), The Weight of the World (BrickHouse, 2006), and The Story of My Lives (BrickHouse, 2008). She has taught university English in the US, China, and the Palestinian West Bank.