New Poems from Pasithea Chan

Tap or Pap

Flip a coin hold and tap
to reveal love or loss’ pap
Fifty-fifty chance tap or pap.
Let the commotion begin!
Pride the ultion will flip
this coin to deeds that trip

Many walk into this trap
innocently to play tap or pap
but fail this trip and dab
their hearts to spin:
Loss, like a sip
and love like a nip.

Guilt is a strap
tying fault like crap
to silence like a slap.
Care is a cleft chin
bearing hurts pin
falling with a din
to silence's coin spin.

Surely this coin will stab.
words with silence so drab
bleeding minds that blab
with melodies so drab.
Tap or pap silence to dap
meaning from life’s map.

Surfacing

I look at its roads
of veins and arteries.
It flows like woes
with heartbeats.

It never sees
light living airtight.
Everything seems right.
Who’d think of plight?

Hurt is a knife that cuts
a skin letting blood ooze.
Air burns its surface
water deepens its gaps.

Suddenly an iris once
so clear gets washed with tears.
Only then we realize
clarity comes from tears.

Suddenly light tears
confidence with real fears.
Tears are fierce
teachers sharper than spears.

Wounds are lights
let in by reality’s shears
clearing destiny’s ways
in lessons about other beings.

Author's Notes:
Inspired by: “The wound is the place where the Light enters you.”-Rumi.

Passion's Wheel

It takes a heart to ride the wheel
of passion and start
to reference position without taking part
or sides in stories that break one apart.

Empathy is the ability
to ride passion’s wheel aptly.
A journey reserved for the extraordinary
they say but on the contrary;
open to all humanity.

To be human is to feel
and understand what it means to keel.
But to empathize is to ride passion’s wheel.

It takes a heart to see
when eyes are built to look.
It takes a heart to journey
when legs are built to walk.

Passion’s wheel is a tricircular sphere
with eight portions for emotions
marked by color for qualities
and distance from the center for intensities.

Where annoyance, anger, and rage
form the first octant;
red denotes aggressiveness.

Where boredom, disgust, and loathing
form the second octant ;
berry denotes contempt.

Where pensiveness, sadness, and grief
form the third octant;
dark blue marks remorse.

Where distraction, surprise, and amazement
form the forth octant ;
light blue marks disapproval.

Where apprehension, fear, and terror
form the fifth octant;
light green marks awe.

Where acceptance, trust, and admiration
form the sixth octant;
dark green marks submission.

Where serenity, joy, and ecstasy
form the seventh octant;
yellow marks love.


Where interest, anticipation, and vigilance
form the eighth octant;
orange marks optimism.

Like passion’s tricircular hierarchy wheel
emotions in humans reveal
empathy, Alexithymia, or antipathy.

Hearts sort humans
as riders of empathy;
drifters of Alexithymia
and the walking dead of antipathy.

Those who see with their hearts
understand where others stand
and stood to be understood
are riders of empathy.

Those who are blind in their hearts
fail to understand where they stand
and run before understanding themselves
or letting others understand them
are drifters of Alexithymia.

But those who are blinded by their hearts
and refuse to understand where others stand
yet expect to be understood
are the walking dead of antipathy.

It takes a heart to sort humans
but it only takes a rider
to tell drifters from dead walkers
for only a heart sees
when the eyes look with ice
at compromise, demise and advice.

Author's Notes:
This poem reflects the definitions of empathy, alexithymia, and antipathy from the side of an empath with scientific connotations aligned with morality and humane values.


Magical Fail

Abracadabra I lift the veil to an epic fail
The cage is gone so is my reality’s scale.
I am running from my fears within my tale.
Surprise I found them grabbing me by the tail.

Outrun by motives I ail
under actions that wail:
Life breaks those seeking breaks to curtail
struggles running without brakes down a trail.

My fears are catching up but I’m so frail.
I lost my heart beneath hurt’s sail
Hiding behind others’ success like mail
stashed and forgotten like a folktale.

I am no magician just an escapist trying to bail
out of a life that’s been an epic fail.
Sad part is I am now stuck in my own jail
trying to get out before I kick the pail!

Inspired by : Steven Universe's song Escapism by theCrewnUniverse & Rebecca Sugar; link on youtube: https://youtu.be/lpVsF8e8NZM

Blueish Hues

Light fell on her book to light
night’s loneliness and show a night
lost to sadness over a love lost.
Love had fallen out of love.

Light fell on her love’s dying light.
Casting darkness behind branches casting
stars of lament with blues’ branches
hiding a castle of sorrows worth hiding.

Glowing blueish hues glowing
with hurt for whom she can’t be with
turn fires that light into fires
that burn hearts just like that.

Love is a fire curling hearts with love
like timbers curling under the fires of like.

Author's Notes:
The prompt is a blueish night with a girl holding a book to the light curling her toes. This piece is a shadow sonnet reflecting emotions I felt looking at that photo


Crimson Heart

Care runs through your blood
Red with sensitivity and comfort
Infused with admiration’s platelets
Musing companionship’s cells to
Sincerity and dedication that are enjoyed
Only by me your best friend.
Never did a heart look so red until I saw yours.

Author's Notes:

Genre : Acrostic Word Count 41

Bio: Pasithea is an impressionist poet who dabbles in art and poetry. She enjoys writing about life and her experiences from different perspectives. She believes in art in poetry as in exploring art to emphasize its role in juicing creativity out of a quill. She enjoys writing poetry in symbolism laced with philosophy and psychology.  Combined with varied styles and topics, her motto will always be: poetry is a passionate expression kindled by an impression unlimited by public conviction.   To catch more of her work follow her on Instagram @pasitheachan or twitter @pasitheachan and on Ello @ello.co/pasitheaanimalibera where you can find more of her historical fiction and mythological or cultural short stories.

A Poetry Showcase by Pasithea Chan

Love and Poetry by Pasithea Chan

When an Oyster Chokes on its Pearls by Pasithea Chan

4 poems by Pasithea Chan : Daily Revelations, Empty Words, Skylark of the Dark, Aloof

A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Pasithea Chan















New Poem: Love by Anthony Agbo

Paper, Heart, Symbol, Romance, Valentine

photo from pixabay

Love

Can we ever avoid you?
You hurt us and most times leave us heartbroken
whenever we allow you in
yet we long for you like addicts.
Indeed! you conquer all
just like they say.

You're that charming gardener
who make our souls blossom
and because of you,
we become like the guitar which surrenders
it's secrets only to the hand 
that knows how to touch its strings.

Whenever you are used
in-between the word - I and YOU,
we often fall for one another 
just like the walls of Jericho fell for Joshua.
Truly you're God and God is you
'cause you work in mysterious ways.

Wolfpack Contributor: Anthony Agbo

Poetry: “Reflection” by Anthony Agbo

Poem by Anthony Agbo: A Tale of Two Different Cities


2 Poems by Anthony Agbo : Love and Lust & My Muse

A Poetry Showcase for Ellysa Greenhalgh

Roses

He sat down & looked around, so much has changed 
The grass was green, not as much as it used to be
He looked towards the rotunda & imaged a band playing 
He could see his Grace dancing with him in front, he looked down, wringing his hands 
For a moment he forgot, he put his hand out to hold hers
Empty air was all he found, he hung his head, closed his eyes
She was standing, his Grace just by the rotunda 
Waiting for him, in a beautiful dress, her hair done perfectly 
He stopped & stared for a minute, then summoned his courage 
He walked out, waved to the band, his heart in his throat 
The band stopped, Grace turned, a smile lit her face up
He stopped in front of her, in a very uncoordinated move, he knelt 
He presented her with three long stemmed red roses & one white 
A diamond ring sat in the white rose, she didn’t breathe, yes, yes, yes!!! 
She yelled, he cried, his Grace, he slowly stood, leaving the park as an old man.

My Own Beat

I am a very definition of a contradiction 
I am a giver, yet my sexuality is a sin
I am a provider, yet my girlfriend in my bed is a sin
I am a mother, yet no father to my daughter is a sin

No sins would be a boring life, fun needs to be had
I have found my eighth sin, oh I did, I am a sinner 
Eighth, the perfect number, infinite, in search of new roles
An intense ambiguity, a woman who walks to her own beat.

The Leaf Dance

I fell ever so slowly 
I was graceful & light
The wind blew, just enough 
Slowly I danced down
Landing every so lightly 
Every now & then
The wind returns
It picks me up
I dance once again.

Not Alone

Babe come with me, take my hand
I know the stress is deep, let it go
The reality is all too much, just be you
You are doing more then anyone expects
Let’s have some fun, kick up our feet 
It’s a warm night, rain is falling 
Let’s put on the tunes, out in the rain 
Let the water wash away some stress
It will be ok, Corona is cruel 
You care for the aged, give respect 
This hits you hard, too many sick
In the residence you work, leave it there 
Let’s be silly, let’s have fun, I want to see you smile 
Our daughter will be ok, negative on test
We are ok, it is not in us
Together we will get through this, family as one
Babe, everyone is vaccinated, I see your pain
We are not alone, world suffers together 
Play the tunes, in the rain, finally I see you smile.

Fan The Embers

You ain’t the same, your light is dimming

I know you don’t mean to, life just extinguishers your flame

All the stress, the constant slamming of demands on you

Time to kick it back, stop saying yes, stop being the pleaser

Your the number one, take yourself to the front of the queue

Tell others do not pass go, do not collect $200

Let’s grab some fine food, refuel your fire, fan the embers

Get some rest, turn off that phone, curl up in my arms

Be warm & snug, on the flip side you will return to you.


Gilded

Black door, gold filigree 
Open heavy door, ice chills down spine
Enter slowly, all alone, lullaby is playing 
Walk forward, pain in feet, hot, too hot
Fall down, spine bending backwards 
Pain, scalding pain
Running through my veins 
Can’t see, can’t move, can’t think 
Nothing, black out
Voice, unknown 
Open eyes, can’t focus 
Blink, Focus
Look down, hands, not mine
Move hands, they move
Gold filigree tattoos, claws
Close eyes, breathe 
Nose, smells overpowering 
Open mouth, tongue senses vibration 
Open eyes, look at body
Skin peeling, gold scales appearing 
Heart beat rapid, breathing shallow 
Panicking, body shaking 
Woman’s voice in my ear
‘Welcome to the Gilded, welcome to life as a Naga’
Naga, myth, no, not real
‘My dear, we are real, no myth. Just a sting, small needle’
Blurry, tired, oh so tired
Close eyes.


Love Eternal

She kissed her goodnight, a light kiss on the cheek 
She knew this was forward, she needed her to know 
She loved her so, she felt the connection of their souls
She knew they could never be, she knew they would not be accepted 
Both their fathers had chosen their husbands & this was the way it would be
She pulled back from the kiss, she expected a slap
To her surprise she was pulled into a passionate embrace, her lips parted by another’s tongue 
She left full of joy & sorrow, she had found her love, a love that would be hidden 
For many years they met in secret, their love & devotion never waived 
As an elderly woman she lay in her bed, listening with despair as she was told her love had passed 
She fell asleep in misery never to wake up
She opened her eyes, she was young again, in front of her stood her love
In this world of spirits & ghosts they could be free to love each other
No limit on time, no hiding, they finally knew freedom 
The freedom to love for eternity.

Bio: Ellysa is from the outskirts of Melbourne, living in the hills amongst the gum trees. Ellysa has been writing since she was young girl as a way to help calm her emotions & thoughts, it has since turned into a passion.


Ellysa’s father introduced her to Edgar Alan Poe, she instantly loved his poetry, all though she does not write like him, she finds his works inspiring.

Ellysa writes poetry in her own way, breathing a fresh breath of air, to take the reader on a journey. Ellysa loves to write descriptively, to bring the reader in, so they too experience what she is writing.

Ellysa has been published 8 times in the last 12 months. Ellysa was late to submitting & only started to submit her work in January 2021. 

Ellysa kept her writing private, only showing her parents if asked, her father passed away in January 2021, he had always pushed her to take her writing further. Ellysa decided it was now or never, & still finds it hard to believe people can relate or enjoy her writing.

Ellysa has a 10 year old daughter, she lives with her girlfriend, she has a wife, however her wife suffered a severe Acquired Brain Injury in January 2018. Now living in care, Ellysa & their daughter Jemima visit her regularly.







A short story by Annest Gwilym “Windows”

Rain Stoppers, Water, Window Pane, Drip

Windows

April 2020

Window One. Rain streaks make it hard for me to see, so I grab the binocs and catch a glimpse of Amelia Jones’ bright red overcoat as she leaves the building and turns right at the road junction. She’s probably going to the shops. I can almost hear the tap tap tap of her high heels on the pavement, shouting for attention. Her roots are starting to show, an inch or so of brunette before the blonde. Her hairdresser must be closed.

1983. Laura’s red shoes, just like the ones in Let’s Dance, pace the pavement. Always a step or two ahead of me. When we get to the pub she insists we speak to each other in French, so people think we are, as she says, ‘exotic’. I am embarrassed but comply. Her steps receding after I told her she shouldn’t have said that my first boyfriend had really preferred her. The relief but strange emptiness that followed, as if a light had gone out…

                 There he goes, that Danny, cigarette in hand. Probably on his way to get more fags and booze. He has a prowling, cautious walk, a bit like a tightrope walker. As if he may fall through the pavement any second.
                Window Two. He turns left – definitely on his way to the Off Licence. I have around thirty minutes.
                After quietly closing my door I pad across the foyer in my slippers to Jenny’s flat and gently knock.
              She cautiously peeks round the barely opened door before letting me in. She looks tired, her eyes dart to the window to check that Danny has gone and isn’t coming back. Her hand nervously tugs her jumper sleeve down, but I can’t help but notice the bruise around her wrist which is at the lurid yellow and purple stage. Little Ivy is asleep in her cot, making soft snuffling noises.
            Jenny makes us some tea, sipping hers while leaning on the window sill, keeping watch on the path. She has that squinty, myopic stare of someone who should really wear glasses. She tells me that Ivy has just started standing up on her own, a shy smile lighting up her face. 

           I look at the plasterboard wall and notice there are more places where he’s punched through. At least it wasn’t her this time. We talk about the weather which has been unseasonably good for April – days and days of sunshine and clear skies. I don’t say anything about the strange, haunting wind I’ve noticed howling at night. It seems to empty the streets, curling down each road, path and damp alley. I imagine it sneaking through people’s letter boxes, and into their lives. 
         ‘Quick’, she says, ‘he’s coming back’.
        I say goodbye and shuffle stiff-legged back across the foyer to my flat. The council have let things go, bits of litter now crusting the edges of the stairway and lift.
        Back in my flat, I resume my watch at the windows. I sit in the swivel chair, so I can easily propel myself and slide along the laminate flooring I had fitted a couple of years ago, from one window to the other, binocs ready on Window One’s sill.

        I just catch him as he returns, goes through the main entrance, two carrier bags in hand. It looks like it’s going to be a heavy night. 
        Window Three. Car park – Mr Tresco’s red and blue van parks. The driver rings and brings three, four, five crates of food for somebody. Lots of cars start arriving now – those still working are coming home. Something comforting about car headlights in the dark, although it’s not really dark here, more of an orange haze.

1980. Waiting at the window for him to come home, the street lamps making the fog orange. The spaghetti bolognaise is overcooked and inedible. I dump it straight from the pan into the bin. I’m too wound up to wash the pans, so I leave them to soak in water. The flat is silent until the phone ringing suddenly jolts me out of my trance. When I answer, the caller puts the phone down. I open another bottle of wine.

      After a while the cars stop coming, night settles in. There is still the steady drone of traffic on the main road, more noticeable now there are fewer planes flying. 

1960. My bedroom is a ship, buffeted by westerlies that rush over the cliff to our house. The drone of the sea lulls me to sleep, busy coming in, or maybe going out. A distant lighthouse pierces the dark, steady and comforting. Its light searches the night, a bit like car headlights.

          20.57, 20.58, 20.59, 21.00. I wonder whether it’s too early to go to bed. Another cup of tea. I make it as slowly as I can, to pass more time. 
          Suddenly, a man shouts, a woman screams. A door on my floor slams. I rush to the windows.
           Window One. There he goes, that Danny, his cautious walk looser now. Talking away to a mobile phone in one hand, cigarette in the other, he takes a right at the main road.
           I quickly put my dressing gown on over my nightie and pad over to Jenny’s, my tartan slippers muffling the sound.
           There is no answer when I knock. I try again.
            ‘It’s me’, I say quietly. She opens the door and lets me in. She lights a cigarette and blows the smoke through an open window. Her fingers tremble slightly. There are empty cider cans strewn on the coffee table, and an unpleasant, acrid smell. 
           Jenny’s eyes are red. She doesn’t make eye contact. Ivy is grizzling, but she just ignores her. I go over, pick her up and rock her gently until she falls asleep.
          ‘Jenny, what’s wrong?’
          ‘He was angry because Ivy wouldn’t stop crying, and he didn’t like what I made him for tea. Says we’ve ruined his life.’
         ‘You know that’s not true. He’s lucky to have the two of you. And you know you can call me anytime.’
          ‘I can’t, he takes my phone whenever he goes out. And doesn’t let me call anyone when he’s in.’
          ‘This is no life for you, Jenny. You don’t have to put up with this.’
          ‘He says no-one else would want me anyway, especially with a baby.’
          ‘Quick,’ she says after a while, ‘I think he’s coming back’.
          21.57, 21.58, 21.59, 22.00. Definitely time for bed. I put the binocs back in their place on Window One’s sill. Despite the warm days, the nights are still chilly so I put an extra blanket on my bed and pull it up under my chin.

1963. The nights were cold then, the bedroom unheated. Roast yourself by the living room fire before bedtime then rush upstairs to bed, the heat still clinging to you like a warm jacket. Then dreading my father’s return from the pub, drunk and angry. Raised voices from downstairs, my mother crying. Hoping that if I stayed quiet he wouldn’t come into my room. I pull the covers up high, under my chin.

      5.57, 5.58, 5.59, 6.00. I wonder whether it’s too early to get up. If I just lie here I may doze off again. Time has become a glutton, difficult to fill. Think of something that makes me feel tired.

1975. I didn’t realise Galway was so far from Dublin. On the coach back, miles and miles of farmland, so green you could drown in it. The night before I’d been drunk, went back to the wrong B & B. Did a tour of the place before a man calmly smoking a pipe in the lounge said that Mrs Noone’s was three houses down the road. Tiredness finally hit me on the ferry, the kind of tiredness that is beyond sleep. 

         Window Three. Excitement of the day – bin collection. After they’ve finished, the wind makes bits of stray litter dance around the car park in a mad, improvised polka. A rental van parks and Danny comes out. I watch as he starts loading the van with suitcases and black bin bags. He throws the last one in, then drives off.
        I pad over the foyer to Jenny’s. She lets me in and goes to stand by the window.
        ‘He’s gone’, she says shakily. ‘The final straw was when I told him I was pregnant again. Said he’d had enough of me and didn’t want another screaming brat.’
         She strokes her belly softly with her hand, although there is no bump yet on her thin frame.
         She moves away from the window and we have tea on the sofas. There is a key to the flat on the coffee table.
         Window One. Back in my flat, I see Jenny leave the building with Ivy in her pushchair, the first time I’ve ever seen her go out on her own with the child.



Bio: Author of two books of poetry: Surfacing (2018) and What the Owl Taught Me (2020), both published by Lapwing Poetry. What the Owl Taught Me was Poetry Kit’s Book of the Month in June 2020 and one of North of Oxford’s summer reading recommendations in 2020. Annest has been published in numerous literary journals and anthologies, both online and in print, and placed in several writing competitions, winning one. She was the editor of the webzine Nine Muses Poetry from 2018-2020. She is a nominee for Best of the Net 2021. Twitter: @AnnestGwilym

Wolfpack Contributor: Annest Gwilym

A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Annest Gwilym

A Poetry Showcase from Annest Gwilym

“What The Owl Taught Me” by Annest Gwilym a poetry book review by Mashaal Sajid

Book Review: “Surfacing” by Annest Gwilym  (review by Mashaal Sajid)

2 poems by Annest Gwilym : Seasons in the Sun & Sometimes at Twilight…

Poetry by Annest Gwilym: Red on Red

Poem by Annest Gwilym “Last Night…”









  


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