Tell me the truth -
Not about LOVE or GOD
rain will change colour
inside wet and warm circles
I'd see the reflection - of every lover
past and present;
Tell me the truth about YOU
let us throw a penny
into a draining stream
watch a river rise over
the snubbed and decayed
where the anti - sapiosexualist
spins one hundred million voices
that sound the same -
same treadmill winds on
They roll them up - Spit them out
Please tell me the truth
(Not about Love or God)
before too many ego's
spoil this imperfect broth.
Beware of a God that Smells of Liquor
Beware of a God that smells of liquor
he'll change the route and imply the simplest of distractions
while sipping gin with cucumber (not lime)
whisper to the ocean to break our mast
among a thirsty crew that create masks;
across tables where chameleons
sleep with tanned and bitten feet;
Feast on Caldo Verde and cold sardines
clinking on wine glasses,
the slaughtered lambs are easily replenished;
pretentious permanence hangs in the hot air
where he hear nine different dialects
trying to delete the madness from the remains of day.
Weavers of tapestry point out our fates
around capes and sunken shipwrecks
gleaming under surface like opened pots of honey
shining and paused underneath in blue and turquoise green.
Make it to the island where eyes are full with rain
guide us to a vertical wind far beyond
the touch of a drunken god's watery grasp
we shall rise as the tellers of journey, birth, and past.
The River Only Flows West When the Dead Are Sleeping
stored in cupboards
where birds -
no longer wake us with song;
If I ever see the stars
breathing out again
that majesty of light
that hangs like shining chariots -
across yellow moons;
I will gaze-from the corners of east and west
when our past is caught
in a clock's mechanism -
metal boats in industrial blue
sleep beneath feet
resting oyster catchers will glimpse
ends of passing
dream and waking breath
the river only flows west
when the dead are sleeping.
Bio from 2019:
Matt was born in Bristol 1971 and now lives in Newport, Wales with his partner Kelly his poems have appeared in many journals such as The Potomac Review, Foxtrot Uniform, Dodging the Rain, Here Comes Everyone, Osiris Poetry Journal, The Blue Nib, The Poetry Village, The Journal, The Dawntreader, The High Window, The Ghost City Review, L'Ephemere Review, Ink, Sweat, and Tears, Confluence, Marble Poetry Magazine, Polarity, Lakeview International Literary Journal, Matt won the Erbacce Prize for Poetry in 2015 with his first full collection of poems Dystopia 38.10 and became one of five core members at Erbracce-Press, where Matt interviews poets for the erbacce-journal, organises events and reads with the other members for the annual erbacce prize.
In 2017 Matt won the Into the Void Poetry Prize with his poem Elegy for Magadalene, and read his work across the east-coast of the USA with readings at the prestigious Cambridge Public Library Poetry Series in Boston, a guest poet appearance at The Parkside Lounge and Sip This in New York City, Matt read at his first U.S. book launch in Philadelphia and has two new chapbooks available One Million Tiny Cuts (Clare Song Birds Publishing House) and A Season in Another World (Thirty West Publishing House) plus a small limited edition booklet The Feeding (Rum Do Press) Venice and London. Matt was also one of the winners of the Naji Naaman Literary Honours Prize (2019) and has read his work across the world including The Poetry on the Lake Festival in Orta, Italy, at the Poetry Cafe in London, A Casa dos Poetas in Portugal , in New York, Boston, and Paxos in Greece, and various venues across the U.K. His second full collection Woodworm was published by Hedgehog Poetry Press in 2019.
It's Getting Darker
I searched for salvation
I yearned for the light,
Looking for the stars
In the cloud covered night.
I fold my prayer like origami
And stuff it in the crack,
A missive to the almighty
Asking if the Flame is ever coming back.
I close my eyes, reaching out
Caressing the cold aging stone,
Trying to touch the ancient past
My soul has come to call home.
The Temple is in shambles
The Mercy Seat is lost,
2,000 years of homelessness
Trying to tally up the cost.
Looking past Mt. Moriah
To the light of the rising sun,
Warming windblown faces,
Dreams of a suffering undone.
The Messiah isn’t coming,
To save this damsel in distress,
It’s an uncomfortable truth to which
We cannot fail to acquiesce.
The clouds are growing darker,
But the deluge will never come,
The promise made on rainbow light
Will never be undone.
I yearned for salvation,
Searching for the light,
Is there nothing here to greet me –
Save the unending darkness of the night?
Bio from 2019:John W. Leys has been writing poetry since he was 14 years old, inspired by the lyrics of Bob Dylan and the Beatles. In addition to posting poetry on his own blog, he is a frequent guest contributor to poetry-blogs such as Blood Into Ink, Free Verse Revolution, and The GoDogGo Cafe. His first poetry collection The Darkness of His Dreams: Poetry was published in July 2019. He currently lives in Redmond, Oregon with his wife, son, three dogs, and two cats.
Darkness of His Dreams (Blog) darknessofhisdreams.wordpress.com/ Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/eliyahu5733 FB: facebook.com/darknessofhisdreams/ IG: https://www.instagram.com/johnleys/ GoodReads: https://www.goodreads.com/jwleys Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/author/johnwleys
I currently have one book published that is available on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1733364501
My friends exist at different levels
I often wonder if they schedule
Who has the burden this week,
Alternating & Arguing,
Deciding & Determining
Whose turn it is to communicate with me...
In the anxiety hours,
Middle of the night,
Recounting every conversation
In attempts to alleviate,
Agony & Angst,
We must accept our inability
To adequately evaluate and assess,
Another failed attempt to advance...
Then you wake up,
Realize where you are
And take a deep breath.
The cold room reminds you of yourself.
You search your empty bed,
For someone else.
No results found.
It's so quiet
Silence has a sound,
As you recall dreams,
Suggestions & Sayings.
Fabric of reality no longer yours
Into the high thread count sheets
That subtly softens your realization
Of all of these things.
Trauma case in the ER.
Doctor asks for a prognosis.
Patient under anesthesia of a substance.
Emptiness and Regret.
Ever consumed by existence.
Unfortunately unable to forget.
Can't see the light of the future,
At the end of the tunnel vision path.
Lost in this reality,
Underlining a lack of success.
In a different space.
Cleared the room
Full of people who later claim
We are close friends and homies
Will pop up out of the blue
Find a reason to call me
Say hello and claim to positively have
Impacted my journey and story.
But with a small bar as my setting
I'm finding myself in my element
For more info check
Refer to all it's references.
#ChromaticStudy of existence
Sad story for the protagonist
Honesty & Heartache
Looking for a silver lining
Like desired character development.
Bio from 2020:
Bradley Galimore (he/him/they/them) is a visual artist, storyteller and poet currently residing in Brooklyn, NY. His work is shaped by his studies in fine art, special education, psychology, work with the visually impaired/blind and his personal experience as a synesthete. As a writer he incorporates all of these areas to give each reader an opportunity to feel expressed and/or understood. He is focused on the full scope of art accessibility and considers writing to be just as important as visual art in that conversation. He approaches writing from a stance of philosophical introspection and narrative by utilizing a poetic/lyrical essay style. Because he wants his work to be a deep discussion, he actively avoids simplification of ideas, focusingon rhyme (per-say) or any of the traditional writing formats. Instead, he emphasizes on the sound of the words and if they work in harmony with each point of discussion.
Check out his work on the Poetry Question below:
Hypnos Turn His Back
Sanctuary no more in nights embrace,
lifes deeds now go unlaundered
in Lethe's poppy soaked waters.
The deepening need is ignored,
for leaden eyes sense a deeper darkness
waiting in that land, where the other brother tarries.
Dark slumber I long for your return,
my mind and body ache.
There was a time when my family was happy.
It was a time of five.
All of us, together, a whole.
Then came subtraction,
One removed, forever gone,
and darkness followed.
There was a time when my family was happy
It was a time of five.
Now we live in four.
my old bedroom
papered over and repainted
near the carpet's edge
a jutting nail
and underneath, the floorboard
the secret place
where treasure and shame
reaching inside that hollow space
its contents gone
discovered and removed
decayed or turned to dust
I remember ice
inside my bedroom window
even my breath did not melt it
a single pane of glass
rattling in the wind
colder outside than in
but only just
Bio from 2020:
Richard's work has appeared in the 2019 CAP Anthology and Black Bough Broadsheets Issue 1. Word Masher, Poet and Writer, @blackboughpoems @PoetryN1 @_Re_side_ First novel "Shadows in the Firelight" now availabe on Amazon
The universe manifests itself in a particular
arrangement of atoms for a time and decides
to write these lines on a different section
of the universe, with a fountain pen that is
also a part of itself. From this perspective,
the universe considers itself separate from
the stars, the spinning galaxies, drifting
nebula, thinks itself a sealed and unique
world. Sighing, the universe walks to a window,
sees its reflection in the clouds, mutating,
never still and breathes in a surge of sadness.
The universe knows the reasons for this feeling
but in this energy configuration that knowledge
is stored within a locked room, down a forgotten
corridor, the key destroyed by rust and rot.
The universe understands without really knowing
that it is just a hum and given some time
the bass note will change in pitch, just as
these words will vibrate to a different tune
when introduced to a singing, dancing flame.
The early bird catches the worm
from a chain coffee shop, is rude
and dismissive to the barista
pecks down the wriggling body
and a double espresso before
zipping off to a day of meetings
and spreadsheets. The early bird
meets all their deadlines, demands
100 percent attendance at every meeting
they organise, no excuses, blocks off
time in a colour-coded, neat, hand-drawn
calendar that they make every Sunday
night in preparation for the week ahead.
If colleagues were asked to describe
the early bird, they would use the words
'brusque' or 'serious' or 'difficult to get on with'.
They do not hear how fast the early bird's
heart is beating, do not see how it swivels
its head all day to see what everyone else
is doing. The early bird puts in long hours
is the first one into the office, the last
one to leave. Exhaustion always wins though,
so the early bird flies under amber
street lights, guided in the dark by instinct,
past lurid billboards and lairy groups
of men in ties, back to it's nest,
empty, wedged in a tree branch in
the expensive part of the city. It settles
itself down into the twigs and newspaper
shavings and tries to block out all
the emptiness around it, wonders
what would happen if it just dropped
and didn't even try to open it's wings
before singing itself to sleep with songs
its mother taught it long ago, on another
continent as its chest flutters
David Ralph Lewis (www.davidralphlewis.co.uk) is a poet based in Bristol, UK who has been published in Marble Poetry Magazine, NineMuses Poetry and Neon Magazine. He has two pamphlets, Our Voices in the Chaos published by Selcouth Station and Refraction. He enjoys dancing badly at gigs and attempting to grow vegetables