Category Archives: poetry

The lines by Uzeyir Lokman Cayci

The more I approach, the more I move away
The more I move away, the more I co-exist
Constantly
Large lines
Belonging to the infinite one
who brushes lightly against my feelings…
Old lines
Which I color with sorrows
To which I give form with my tears
That I deepen through a whole life
And that I move away from in myself
And which flee from me…
Fine lines
That I mix with
Many recoveries
With which I juggle
Misleading, attractive
Transparent meanings
Significant and contradictory…
With a finality in my heart like tenderness
Sinuous in the way of love
Continuous, decided, alive…
As the lines run in me
They return to me happily
Blue, green and white
Friendly lines…
 lin_400

French free verse translated into English free verse
by Joneve McCormick

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Those Eyes by Hunter Dasten

Can you peer through those eyes?
The radiance must be blinding.
As I gaze into them I’ve come to understand
what the ancients must have felt,
looking up toward the shimmering night sky.
All the mysteries and wonders of life
are clearly reflected, as is the light.
And even if I’d never be sure
just what chemicals kindle a stars faithful burn.
I would still spend every night
dreaming up poems about your eyes.

eyes01_400

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If you were mine by Abigail George

If you were mine
(for my paternal grandparents)

ol01_400_01Perhaps this is how
       my grandparents met. Perhaps, this too,
was their love song.

So, I say your name.
Mikale – but for the life of me you can’t
understand why I’m

reaching out to you like this. Why I
find you interesting (and sensitive).
Your face and hands,

wise, interesting (and sensitive)
inside your leather jacket. In your presence, I’m tongue-tied. Don’t
know what to say.

So, I talk about
everything and nothing at the same time. I think about
the fact that I don’t swim anymore.

I think about the fact
that you’re a man, who lives and builds and breathes and eats
with the desire of a man.

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Abigail George has two books in the Ovi Bookshelves,
“All about my mother” & “Brother Wolf and Sister Wren”
Download them, NOW for FREE HERE!

 life_06_400

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Opening Pandora’s Box in your thirties by Abigail George

Opening Pandora’s Box in your thirties

There’s a loss to the windswept
  day. The waves beautiful but I
wind01_400do not want to go into the water.
  Feel it against my skin. I’m afraid I might
Drown in all of that memory. That
sly work. I feel I might get tangled
Up in the seaweed and never come
up for air again. Perhaps I will hit
My head against driftwood and lose consciousness.
I remember you touching my face.
It was only a moment. Now it’s a
memory and there’s a loss to the day.

It’s you. It’s you. The light as if from
birthday candles are punishing. You’re
a man. Thunder. Wolf-like and unhappy.
I’m a woman. Lightning. In other words
an angel. But I am also unhappy. How
to solve this elegantly. I wanted to hide
from the world. (In other words,) from
you. You’re poetry. Poetry. I say this
as if I have never experienced
Tigers of lust, pleasure, the suffering
Of pain. I loved you. Even though you were
Cold to me afterwards. I like to remember that.
You’re with another now. She’s more
woman. Less girl.

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Abigail George has two books in the Ovi Bookshelves,
“All about my mother” & “Brother Wolf and Sister Wren”
Download them, NOW for FREE HERE!

 life_06_400

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Whispers from the Grave by Michael Lee Johnson

Whispers from the Grave
(Heart attack 50 years of age)
 
What happened to 20 acres of farmland tilted toward sun angles,
those sharp stone edges cool fall comes
frost fields covered taking ownership of rented, abused, abandoned land−
10 years Phil has been gone, DeKalb, Illinois farmer.

Did he find salvation in those gold cornfields?
October orange colors, hayrides, and pumpkin harvest
of grey, grave bones buried near the deadly bicycle ride.
Mystery did his lover Betsy
(defense, prosecuting attorney, Elgin, Illinois)
stand by his site after she went through mourning,
the grandstanding at the wake at the farm,
the dimming of all candles, incenses, and memorial shrine
she held sacred within her bedroom walls, now faded.

farm01_400_03

 

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Waking With A Poem Already In My Head by Neil Leadbeater

Waking With A Poem Already In My Head

Wednesday morning, waking with a poem
already in my head, I saw
the pond-skater
pirouetting on thin ice
and knew, as I began to write,
that I had barely scratched the surface.

 poem01_400_03

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Ovi magazine

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At this table by Bohdan Yuri

Reservations at eight
at our favorite table,
you were fashionably late,
a less than cherished fable.

you ordered the usual wine
I, a double blue label.
in our most best of times
we had feasted a very full ladle.

I persistently stare at you,
your eyes hide into the table.
I’m left with the most cruel view,
which makes this scene so able.

last night you gave your love to him,
pinning on your scarlet label.
the stinging hint of your lewd sin
is all too clear and inescapable.

what’s left is the tasteless discourse:

before you leave our table,
you will hear my terms in our divorce;
after which, I will dine alone at my table.

 table01_400

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Ovi magazine

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