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By Spiros Zafiris
dusk in their eyes
suddenly finds reprieve
when an owl
disturbs branches
and the moon startles them with light
call it effervescence,
the lilac's lean for
parting rays
new raindrops meet
disapproval and an inward pause
nighttime quivers
make us run to our shoes
and the pants
we jump into
take us to a den of thieves
at the campus,
they dare not embrace
an alluring bench
to rest their old legs
these sauntering alumni, suddenly shy
O lyre,
do not mermaids sway
and clouds part
for a grateful moon
when her lips greet mine in half sleep
his eyes absorbed
the epiphany's call to
meld with roses
to dispel all dark clouds
with a petal's calm
the confluence of
will and might neath the pillow,
in his viens, shimmers
as a new dream enters, to
enliven his weary heart
the radio will
soon confirm the earthquake; it
howled through my ears
as I slept and, ruefully,
I await the specifics
tears will fall
to caress a smile's glimmer
and watch it fade
for more tears to follow
emptier still
our handholding
makes onlookers smile
as larks above
nestle—or pledge to the moon
more entertaining wings
• Poems first appeared in Modern English Tanka, Spring 2009 |
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By Nancy Beneteau
Streets are dark
Air is cold
A single bag I do hold
The contents are heavy and old
I stagger here and there
but not from the drink.
It is my bag of luggage that
carries much more than I think.
So many road to choose
Not sure where to turn
A safe place to rest is what I yearn
As I make my journey
I turn down many roads
all leading to knowhere
I cry out in for help
but no one comes
I cry out in desparation
but still I continue on.
This road looks familiar I say,
It looks like all the rest
I'll take it too
But this time You are there
with open arms,
Not sure what to do?
I am scared
As I tremble still I reach out
with my eyes closed and face hidden
But You take my hand and lead
me down a new road
Nothing like I've ever seen before.
Should I follow You?
Where are You leading me?
Why won't I let go?
What's down this road?
I Must know.
To scared to turn back
I want to go this road so bad but at what cost?
Was i that lost?
Thought a child was never told to roam that far from home
Is that where I am heading?
Has my father finally found me?
Is He leading me home?
How will I know?
How can I know if it's my Father here with me?
How can I know if I'm going Home?
The warmth in my soul and the deisre for warmth in my heart tells me
I AM GOING HOME!
• This poem was inspired by a sermon my pastor gave on Psalm 13 |
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Patricia Anne McGoldrick is a Canadian poet, writer, and reviewer.
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By Trevor Trower
Eastern Townships P.Q.
April 9, 2011
This party happens every spring,
enjoying life, that’s the thing.
Sugaring off and having fun,
that is how the work gets done.
Comes the time in the Maple Trees
when the sap begins, to un-freeze
and starts to flow, God we thank,
and it ends up in the boiling tank.
First we chop down the old pine tree,
then we chop it up, don’t you see.
Set the fire sticks row on row
start the fire, watch it glow.
Then cook the sap, make it boil
watch it bubble, watch it roil.
It starts to thicken and when it’s done,
there’s a taste for everyone.
Pour some on a bed of ice,
use a stick to taste, aint it nice.
There’s oxen and horses side by side,
Who will take you on, a great hay ride.
Up on the wagons amid bales of hay,
for this thrill, no need to pay.
The driver calls out gee-up, get-along,
on their way with a cheer and a song,
it takes fifteen minutes to make that ride
then chilled were glad, to get inside.
All that business, is just great,
what’s in the barn?, I just can’t wait,
a crowd is gathered, quite a swarm
and a great big fire to keep us warm. |
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Japan Disaster, March 11, 2011 |
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Our thoughts and prayers go out to the people of Japan. Canadians are encouraged to support Red Cross relief efforts by making a financial donation to the Canadian Red Cross Japan Earthquake/Asia-Pacific Tsunami fund. Donations can be made online at www.redcross.ca/helpnow, at your local branch office or by calling toll free 1-800-418-1111.
by Trevor Trower
Midday the quake which shook creation
Caused terrible fear across that nation,
It’s strength they say was Richter nine,
nothing like this in a long, long time.
The roads buckled, the buildings fell,
some thought they were going thru hell.
Many died, and untold were hurt,
ten thousand bodies neath the dirt.
What caused this awful tragedy
Was an earthquake underneath the sea.
The highway destroyed, the power lost,
ahorrible event and what a cost.
Then when things could be no worse
along came the most terrifying curse,
a tsunami swept in from the sea,
a ten meter high calamity.
Nothing could withstand its flow
which some places inland fifty miles did go.
What had been left by the earthquake
was washed away for goodness sake.
Thousands more dead, a cruel shame,
natural forces were to blame.
Those fortunate enough to survive
bare handed, tried to save those buried alive.
Aftershocks, many every hour
tore down the last remaining tower.
Surely now everything vile was done
Nothing left for anyone.
But with that devastation one more cross,
the nuclear generators had been lost
and the radiation in the atmosphere
was one more calamity to fear.
Around the world people held their breath
another tragedy of loss and death.
Ninety countries offer to lend a hand
to help those people in that stricken land. |
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By Oneal Walters
If Ruth inhales my love as a rose scent
escapes in the night from his torture; her life begins.
Then I would fast against all man’s sin
and kneel below Ruth's waist, removing her scars.
To Ruth pt4
Her back thrown against the wall
his greasy hands grip her throat
Ruth swallows
her throat collapses
You’re hurting me.” She says.
He stops.
Ruth falls to the floor,
inhales deeply.
He slams the front door.
Ruth crawls along the floor into the washroom
passes an opened bible and a rolled Rihanna poster.
She removes a black handle mirror from the counter,
and screams, “why is this happening to me?”
Ruth stares at herself;
am I not beautiful today?
Why does he treat me so harshly?
What did I do to make him mad?
Her hand tilts the mirror downwards,
his sandpaper fingertips burned onto her neck.
*To Ruth is a series of poems first revealed in OW News. The first two parts were published earlier. Ruth represents a woman who is living with a man who physically abuses her. Join this newsletter by emailing
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By Oneal Walters
If the truth causes Ruth to never be beaten by him again,
I would abandon my pen,
and proclaim love with no physical pain
to all Ruths, until every one abolishes this abuse.
To Ruth pt2
If Ruth inhales my love as a rose scent
escapes in the night from his torture; her life begins.
Then I would fast against all man’s sin
and kneel below Ruth's waist, removing her scars.
*To Ruth is a series of poems first revealed in OW News. Part three will be in the next issue. Ruth represents a woman who is living with a man who physically abuses her. Join this newsletter by emailing
This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it
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(A Poem For Our Times)
POETRY | By Patricia Anne McGoldrick
Everyone knows that
Oil
and
Water,
Even if holy,
Do not mix.
This twosome today
Spells disaster
Now,
Unfortunately,
Ever after.
• Patricia Anne McGoldrick writes poems, essays and reviews. Her poems are published at Sleet; Irish American Post; Chapter And Verse; Cyclamens and Swords and League of Canadian Poets. Patricia's ontributions are featured in Frost and Foliage; Voices Israel Anthology 2009; Ice: New Writing on Hockey; Love & Longing in the Near North; The Changing Image, 2008, 1994 and The Grand Table Anthology. Patricia is a member of The Ontario Poetry Society and The Canadian Poetry Association, Associate Member of The League of Canadian Poets.
W: PMPOETWRITER | B: BLOGSPOT
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By Alison Clarke
[Note: This poem took second place in the 2nd Annual Women Inspirational Poetry Contest organized by Oneal Walters]
Sister Moon set adrift in fuchscia pinks and bright yellows: a glowing golden ball
Illuminating creativity, dancing synergy...smiling down on Madonna's funky
Moves, frozen in Videographer's Time; showing a 48 year old's energy,
Down right spunk and a type of frenetic chemistry...Mama Madonna churning
Out a techno-style moving musically to a modern muse...
Sister Moon languishing in the success of a female who goes to the beat of
Her own drum--sexy, classy, smart, not supercilious, listening to
Her instincts, bucking trends: talking about the importance of spirituality,
Individuality, dealing with the issues in the family...saying "F you" in
Music speak--saying selfishness is out--concern for humanity is paramount...
Her latest groove gets you into the mood...
Talking about regrets, mistakes, things missed in the ambitious uptake:
Not listening to your heart, but marketing gurus...Selling your soul for
Fame--the right choice according to THEIR rules...
But Madonna does a reverse-take: wears her heart on her sleeve and
Publicity for money and fame does abate...
Singing about concern for her daughter that she grows up happy
Despite the darkness in the world...
Echoes of pangs, desire for a mother she never knew...
Running away from a past haunted by sadness and feelings never explored...
Following her heart--following her muse...Sister Moon laughs--for Madonna
Has finally come of age...A record that flops; Madonna undaunted;
Another album...Accolades: what The Sister isn't surprised to hear of...
Confessions of blind ambition...acts that lead to derision...Acts that led to
Faulty Decisions...
Alluding to someone who tells her what he thinks:
Does not treat her like a spoilt brat--a celeb that deserves constant,
Sole Attention...Pushing her to be the best; Pushing her to be
Considerate, caring, talented, honest, compassionate like all the rest...
Madonna pushing 50--and she has more than fulfilled her destiny:
Pop Diva, Dancing Queen, Classic Female Artist always having the
Pulse on the Music Scene...Yet being able to marry throbbing beats
With intense, melodious, introspective lyrics that hit us with
Profundity, clarity, and sincerity...
Melding Kabbalah spirituality with a story of someone lost who
Is trying to create a new home...to flat out saying no to waiting for a
Flaky lover and just staying home...
Madonna rules her musical domain with passion, precision, a lyrical vision
In a marriage to a mesmerizing dancing beat born on the Dance Floor--
Inspired by the Street...
Sister Moon emanates like a giant disco ball--lighting the
dance floor which is
Urban Earth--and making the way for people to have fun and freely fall...
Into Break-dancing: Women, Men, A Young Black Girl, A Young
Black Woman...
Blacks, Asians, Whites...They are all having a ball...United because of the
Drone of the dance beat: bodies gyrating, bending, limbs flowing to the
Techno-heat...
Madonna...a role model...revolutionary--saying something with meaning,
With a Disco Leaning...
Madonna...mother, wife...entering the fifth decade: no signs of
Slowing down; still successful, famous, in a decade initiated by
A New Millennium...Not making apologies for speaking her mind
Speaking her soul--speaking her thoughts which is a rare goal...
In a world where image and artificial lyrics reign supreme...
Alacrity, sincerity, literary destiny is often a dream...
Madonna...A woman who says it's okay to be yourself, looking
Youthful, being spiritual, and having a joyous, timeless aura
Despite the years...
Inspired by Sister Moon...mother of creativity...mother of
Lyrical dexterity, musical ability, spirituality...tenacity,
Timelessness, veracity...physical elasticity...subject of
Vincent's Starry Night...
Ageless through the centuries...peering over artists: Musicians,
Writers, Painters...
Sister Moon--not a mere satellite, not a fool...
But earth's luminous orb of light attracting us, guiding us
Into our own depths of creativity, sensitivity, reflecting reality...
Leading us to know ourselves...inspire others...like the stars
In the universe that twinkle and dazzle...
Sister Moon basks in the intensity of a strong light destroying
Darkness, duplicity, downright stupidity, and encouraging
Artistic kinship, empathy, harmony, unity, sincerity in a vicinity
Called La Terre--Sister Moon's sister--kindred spirits that
Can't compare: sisters forged by synchronicity...nature's gift...
Sister Moon looks in on us with support and surprise--at us
Trying to be honest, destroying lies...
Sister Moon takes over when La Terre is asleep...Sister Moon
Takes pride in our successes, but is saddened by our defeats...
Sister Moon inspires the artist in us all...Sister Moon is the muse,
Now, then, and forever after...Amen.
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POETRY | By Lynda Anaya
[Note: This was the winning entry in the 2nd Annual Women Inspirational Poetry Contest organized by Oneal Walters]
Lady is a flower;
stem strengthened by life,
tresses, petal soft
flowing in gentle breezes
catching clandestine sparkle
of falling constellations.
Appearing almost fragile;
her scented skin glowing
as moon shines, faintly
jealous of her light.
She basks in the afterglow
of accomplishment
singing lullabies to sleepy eyes,
still unaware of the strength
hiding behind soft eyes;
love fluttering within every blink
of feathered lashes.
***
Poet's Note: My poem is dedicated to my Mom and all Mothers whose love carries us through life upon a wing and a smile! |
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By Kimberlee Edgecomb
[Note: This poem earned third place in the 2nd Annual Women Inspirational Poetry Contest organized by Oneal Walters]
When I was much younger
With few rules, less laws,
I lived wild without Jesus in a life without cause.
Acting out how I felt
Played openly with sin,
And dabbled in wells that fast drew me in.
Never contented
Never at peace.
I plunged into sin that never did cease.
Looking good on the outside
But down deep in my soul,
Lay an old empty well, all filled up with holes.
Then the fullness of Christ
Swept over me with a roll,
I began to look inward to search my own soul.
The gleam of this world
Lost its glitter and flash,
As I thought of the cost for my sins of the past.
Thanks be to God
For my Lord paid the price,
And today I walk freely and humbly with Christ.
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Observations On Earth Hour |
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POETRY | By Patricia A McGoldrick
Dinner is over, dishes cleaned
Just as Earth Hour begins
Evening darkness is descending quickly so
I rush to find the matches
First, I light the tall yellow beeswax candle
Anchored in the pewter holder inherited from my great-grandparents
Who knew more than an hour without hydro power.
Through the sheer curtains, I see
Streetlights go out
I turn off the kitchen light
Pour my tea, pick up the candle
Carry it into the living room
Earth hour has begun.
Tonight, I write, in darkness, almost.
My blank white paper, tinted with mellow candlelight,
Flickers with shadows
As I write down these words
It seems ironic to me, now, that I am mesmerized, once again,
By a yellow candle flame glowing brightly
Reminding me as it flickers of a moment in the past
At Orangeville District Secondary School--
It seems like only yesterday when, in our first class of Grade 12 Chemistry,
My peers and I were assigned a seemingly absurd exercise—
Noting and recording observations of
Something so elementary as a lit candle.
I recall that, to my non-scientific mind, the exercise was one of futility
Why we could be learning about elements and chemical interactions
Not just looking at a mere candle
Years later, for me—poet writer observer, you might say—
it was humbling to learn about the significance of
Faraday’s venture to record his observations of a burning candle
But I digress…
Everything is still in the house now
I listen in the candlelight
White noise is gone
Aside from our creamy cocka-poo’s breathing
There are no other sounds here
I pause from my writing, sip my soothing tea and
I glance around the ochre-coloured living room where
Dark green upholstery blends into shades of dark and darker
Our Edwardian furniture was made for times like these
Wrought-iron lamps are capped with white translucent shades
Circled with a band of green ivy
Waiting in the dark until time has passed to be on display again.
As I sit here, quietly, drinking some Irish breakfast tea
From one of Mother’s blue cameo bone china cups
My eyes are drawn to the candle once again.
I watch, puzzled by the Latin dance its flame is performing
The rhythm is soothing, almost hypnotic in its sway
I break away from its spell and then
On the cherry wood coffee table I notice the rectangular box,
Constructed last summer by Eric,
As a home for a sandy Zen garden and memories of Anne’s Green Gables
I reach to gently rake the red grains of PEI sand
Rearranging the small stones collected from Maritime shores
I see that on one side of the sturdy Zen garden there
Sits a brown burlap pouch containing a grid mat with handwoven Xs and Os
Just waiting to be picked for a game
On the other side, sit two mind-testing board games--Quarto and Quoridor—
With their smoothly-crafted wooden pieces resting on their game boards
I grin to think of the numerous times
We have played these games with each other, relatives, friends.
Sighing contentedly in the quiet of this special hour,
I drink my tea that has just the right amount of milk
Savouring the flavour of my favourite brew.
I turn my attention back to the book and note paper beside me
By candlelight, this evening, I read
Emily Dickinson’s poems, a small collection of her verses
She too wrote in the darker light of candles and lanterns
In her small yellow house noting the small things
More than once she wrote about light and hope
And death and winter and light and nature and birds and hope
Like Faraday, she noted so much.
I finish reading her poems and note, by my watch, that
The hour is quickly ticking by
I finish my tea and wonder about Emily and Faraday and
My eyes are drawn to the piano near the window
With its creamy white keys beckoning to be played.
I can still remember a bit of my Grade 8 Conservatory pieces but decide that a
Simple solo is sufficient for this peaceful eve.
I sit on the piano bench and start to play softly an octave above Middle C—
Twinkle, twinkle, little star…
When I am finished playing my opus, I glance towards the window.
Through the clear glass I see that our neighbours, too,
Have some yellow spots of candlelight showing through their darkened windows.
The streetlights are starting to flicker
This year’s Earth Hour is coming to an end
Time to extinguish the candle or
Maybe I will just let it linger
Savour it with some more tea for, maybe, Another hour for our Earth.
Patricia A McGoldrick writes poems, essays and reviews. She is also a member of The Ontario Poetry Society.
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By John Jansen in de Wal
From ode to sonnet
more’s in your bonnet.
From Glosa and Virelay
Pantoum and Nonet
you’re offered Refrain
yes, even Quatrain.
More you shall see;
of Etheree and Shih.
• John Jansen in de Wal is a Toronto-based author, He has published several books. This poem is from his book A Poet's Adventure. For more on the author, visit www.jansenindewal.com. |
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Two poems from Word Music, by John Jansen in de Wal
If my Dad had been a rooster
and my Mom a willing hen,
They might have had a lot of chicks.
Maybe even ten.
• • •
Sometimes I feel like
a bramble bush in the desert.
Not only are my thorns,
my leaves, my branches
on fire, but my very roots.
It is a fire that
does not scorch
nor burn to ashes.
It causes me to shake
in body and in soul.
Is that your spirit?
• John Jansen in de Wal is a Toronto-based author, He has published several books. These poems are from one of his latest offerings Word Music. For more on the author, visit www.jansenindewal.com. |
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By John Jansen in de Wal
Flirty Fanny Floozy
bare skin’d ran
in bright moon
to get a tan
both arms here
both legs there
Flirty Fanny Floozy
did not care.
Flirty Fanny Floozy
what a gal
went to bed
with an - I can’t tell -
one leg up
one leg down
Flirty Fanny Floozy
wore no gown.
Flirty Fanny Floozy
that hot gal
played in bed
in a way just - well-
one leg down
one leg up
Flirty Fanny Floozy
swilled a cup
Flirty Fanny Floozy
that drunk maid
fell out of bed
then farewell bade
both legs up
shoulders down
Flirty Fanny Floozy
took to town.
• John Jansen in de Wal is a Toronto-based author, He has published several books. This poem is from one of his latest offerings Word Music. For more on the author, visit www.jansenindewal.com. |
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By John Jansen in de Wal
If my Dad had been a rooster
and my Mom a willing hen
they might have had a lot of chicks
maybe even ten.
• John Jansen in de Wal is a Toronto-based author, He has published several books. This poem is from one of his latest offerings Word Music. For more on the author, visit www.jansenindewal.com. |
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