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The Tinker Of Words The Imagist At Work

early dawns
are stressed frogs
they cannot sing
their croaking throats
there is simply
no rain here

they change themselves
into poets
to demean you and
what you do

they swim in the
air (as there is no water
here yet
as there is no rain
and that is
logical enough
to understand)
and the birds

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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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You Are The Metaphor For Me

The essence of love which I find
Writing this poem keeping you in mind.
But the words of beauty are wagging a war
The line breaks along with the love grammar
Rhyme, rhythm of heart beat
Mysterious music eyes mystic.
Spelling of smelling is a malapropism
The charm is a mesmerizing problem
The simile is the walking like a cat
Slim body is the punctuation without fat
Your arm is the connotation of warmness
Your word is an ellipsis of kindness
Your sight is the catharsis after pity
Your soul is a symbol of pure chastity
I wanted to give you this as a presentation
I could not write, please take the whole lexicon
How hard to write a poem, you see!
You are not you, you are the metaphor for me!

poem by Abdul Wahab
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Poetries

Step lightly here;
Words below:
Adverbs too.

Be ginger with the Sentences;
Note: the Clauses have so much Ego.

Oh, let's not talk Punctuation,
the pickiness makes for unrelating.

I have had a personal thing about
the Pluperfect Tense,
before I learned to get it right-
I think.

Now, I do like the Action Verbs
they stand out.
But the Hyperbolic Adjectives are overused,
don't you think?

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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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0158 for FJR; here's to poetry

This is the illicit still of poetry
half hidden in the dry ditch beyond the hedge
firewater drunk from an old tin mug
it takes the skin off your throat
and drops it into your glowing stomach

and you don’t ask but maybe
wild crab-apples, turnips,
a handful of stolen barley, an old boot,
perhaps an incautious rat
who drowned in the middle of
drinking a wild dream
such as rat never had before

this the raw stuff
untaxed by rules
out here in the unfenced fields
not much spelling, punctuation,
vocabulary, grammar,
metre, euphony; if Emily

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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I Have Nothing To Say To Your Pain

i have nothing to say.
i will sit beside you and just look at your face.
i am at loss of words
there is no punctuation to ease the wreck
of the sentences of pain not breathing anymore to rest
but always wailing as though there is no end to your paragraphs.

what words are needed, i ask myself, to ease your pain?

i was there. i am still here. Past lives that still haunt
secretly in the furrows of our foreheads.
was i a nomad in the sahara?
was i a king in one of the kingdoms of Java?
have i killed a brother? or a father?

why are my hands trembling like some stilt houses
in the rivers of Kwai?

i am hearing voices from the deepest caves of India.
The past is not past. It is still here in the present

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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Letter To All

Today I had a rude awakening
Today I went out to dinner with my boy and wife
One of Alice’s songs began to play in the restaurant
One of them said “Isn’t that your girlfriend singing”
Both my boy and my wife began to laugh out loud
I felt as if I were the butt of some cruel joke
I began to think that I should give up my love of poetry
So I will give everyone my reason for no punctuation
I don’t want my poems to be restrained I want them to be free
And everyone may read it differently each time they read it
Maybe if my poetry receives recognition one day I may return
That is if my family learns that I am a fairly decent poet
And they tell me that I can continue to write poetry
I will miss you Alice more than anything I am sad
To say that it is with a heavy heart I must bid you all adieu
You all Happy Holidays peace

poem by Edwin Tanguma
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A Thing of Beauty

the ruffling of the hair
on her eyelids, the billowing
light brown tresses accentuate
a delicate face, aquiline nose,
finely shaped eyebrows, luscious lips
a beauty that slices a space for
one to walk handsomely into her heart
a painter's spontaneous delight,
a ballet dancer's graceful twirl
a vantage wine - two hundred years
in the damp, dark and cold - to
finally meet daylight and reflect
the sweetness of a heartelt evening
where laughter takes over the lane of stresses
to let beauty walk the aisle of the soul,
our feet lightly tap, and our voice tempers
the air to let the luxury of nature closes in on us
so irresistible for such a light moment of the day
it's a punctuation between reality and dream
where two persons dance hand in hand to a

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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Late Aubade & Explanation

Once in a field, in a wide rising stretch of paintbrush
& purple vetch, we stuck down

a tent, like punctuation, and drank through the evening
our bottle of bad wine. When you looked up,
the weather was holding: a few breezes,

a full moon silvering the flowers

to white. In the distance, I heard the ache
& slide of snow, the beginning of crickets. It was twilight—

the landscape was lifting.

•

A mountain. The clouds, further up,
came down. A Book of Hours. A tent in which we twisted,
pressed each against the other, drunk

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poem by Kate Northrop
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Draw String

The curtains in my living room
lift and fall
gracefully
as I pull their strings each day;
marking the rise and fall of each
season
and each day in between-
punctuation
for the life between you and me.

Like my skirts
they lifted first
and fell
on our wedding bed
on our wedding night-
and now gracefully on special nights;

They rose to the realities
of married life-
fell during our dark times-

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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Jet

Sometimes I wish I were still out
on the back porch, drinking jet fuel
with the boys, getting louder and louder
as the empty cans drop out of our paws
like booster rockets falling back to Earth

and we soar up into the summer stars.
Summer. The big sky river rushes overhead,
bearing asteroids and mist, blind fish
and old space suits with skeletons inside.
On Earth, men celebrate their hairiness,

and it is good, a way of letting life
out of the box, uncapping the bottle
to let the effervescence gush
through the narrow, usually constricted neck.

And now the crickets plug in their appliances
in unison, and then the fireflies flash
dots and dashes in the grass, like punctuation

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poem by Tony Hoagland
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