There was a knock on my door. I heard footsteps walking as I opened it. My heart skipped a beat. I saw no one, only heard footsteps walk and walking away. I counted a thousand footsteps at least. I am known to embellish things. I fear the man I am turning into. There was no shadow to those footsteps. In the distance I thought I saw a figure walking. It was just a memory of someone I once knew.
Taking the Name
The skeleton’s skull is suspended in the night sky, taking the name moon; its bleached white tears are dispersed along night’s canvas, taking the name stars. The black ink is spread throughout, which has already been named sky. Its hue will change in the twenty-four hours called day with spheres lingering in the sky with the names of sun and planets to keep our attention and interest.
Cut Down to Size
O, I am not handy with a saw, but I have cut into wood like a woodcutter. I cut until my hands hurt and my blisters made me feel useful. I cut under the shadows of tree leaves. The cutting of limbs was such a release. One day someone might be cutting on me. I am far from healthy. I feel the pain in my knees. I feel the torment of not being able to do what I used to do. I see my life racing by. I am seeing a future where I will need to slow down.
Count the Days
Here I count the days? My time is going slow. Between morning and noon, between noon and five o’clock, I feel a quiver some days. The days are so long. I search my soul so deep. One of these days I will lie under grass.
I am just here surviving. Green pastures await me. I will lie underneath. Time is up for everyone. There is no need to feel sad. I do not always feel down. I look forward to night to watch the stars cluster.
Our collapse is our own doing. Greed inevitably consumes itself. Man has sold its soul for riches. This negligence will come due. Like a wilted flower, we will perish someday someway at any hour. I will be among the protesters kicking up the dust I will become.
Luis lives in California and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles. His poems have appeared in Blue Collar Review, Ink Pantry, Kendra Steiner Editions, Mad Swirl, and Unlikely Stories.
You can find more of Luis’ work here on Ink Pantry.
I adorn my mind each morning with a word as a queen for her coronation is adorned with gold, with associations to combat the foul breath that is spewed from establishments, individuals, and the rituals of the modern world.
Though sharing three consonants with its adversary numb, nimble is my armor against stagnation, stupor, and getting outrun by the spurious and the arrogant.
I resort to sedate in times of turmoil when warfare sharpens its fangs and claws, when rockets compete for the bull’s eye that is wrought by profiteers who have been wooing my hometown port.
Sanguine is my anodyne for un-halcyon days when depression is depleting both pockets and spirits and Hope is an effigy that pins impale whose sister Mercy is being burnt at the stake.
A Single Birthday
I imagine what a single birthday would be like spent with her: a home-made cake that her hands deck with nuts, with candles that are not to be blown out. Two glasses of sweet wine brewed by her ancestors in the vicinity of their country vineyard. An apple pie. And some milk chocolate that instantly melts in my mind before it reaches my mouth.
A bottle of perfume with a blue ribbon round its neck. A white hairband for my ponytail. A strapless bikini for my next summer holiday. A puzzle to keep me busy on lonely nights. And a tearless goodbye.
Their mode of existence was marked by numbers – these offsprings of David, the Nazarenes – by sacred geometry.
Even-tempered and compassionate, they kept no servants or slaves and equal men and women were declared.
The hand that was placed on top of the head had learnt the art of healing both the afflicted and the sick.
They consumed their meals in utter silence, the vegetarian meek who drank nom fermented liquids and because purification was uppermost, they lived by rivers and lakes to keep themselves cleansed.
On Mount Carmel they pursued the truth, the illumination of inner lives, so the Book of Enoch was among other texts that their precious library kept and both john the Baptist and Jesus Christ received their blessings and enlightenment.
And sleep, which for modern thinkers contains the residue of the day’s turbulence and joys, is a source of deep knowledge, so the last thoughts before a slumber are to be purified and purged to keep the power of the mind intact.
Susie Gharib is a graduate of the University of Strathclyde with a Ph.D. on the work of D.H. Lawrence. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in Adelaide Literary Magazine, Green Hills Literary Lantern, A New Ulster, Crossways, The Curlew, The Pennsylvania Literary Journal, Ink Pantry, Mad Swirl, Miller’s Pond Poetry Magazine, and Down in the Dirt.
Susie’s first book (adapted for film), Classic Adaptations, includes Charlotte Bronte’s Villette, Virginia Woolf’s The Waves, and D.H. Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover.
You can find more of Susie’s work here on Ink Pantry.
He lost the land of his birth’s winter snow, lost heart-throbbed life fragments morphed into dreams, lost his family that day long ago, a desertion scarring his self-esteem, stony heart cracked, future free as the sky. He lost chance opportunities, too few, cherished keepsakes, old friendships torn awry, lost his roadster in a carpark’s chromed queue, a character in an absurdist play, sped off, denim jacket slammed on the roof, further loss as, waving, it flew away. His pillared past bared, no longer blame-proof, he aches for things he shall not see again, knows ego’s reckless largesse caused this bane.
Raising his spirits and his cockstand, Joyce composes letters to Trieste. Nora responds, ghosting that book, banned, raising his spirits and his cockstand, kinky, inky. From her artless hand: moist orgies. His lewd woman possessed, raising his spirits and his cockstand, Joyce composes letters to Trieste.
Aware that city lights blink on, off, on while bubbling boredom, longing, blurs our days, we work the teeming dorms, a kind of con reaping weed from boys who believe crime pays. In this chapel of corruption, Dickie, First Nations tent boxer, plays the tribesman, my role his circus box office, tricky ringmaster minus the stretch caravan. Script rehearsed, stage props: needle, pure white thread, Dickie, eyelashes fluttering, growls chants, racehorse names back to front to pump our cred. Vultures’ cruel committee judges his trance. From inside his mouth he pierces his cheek, silver, red, burst bright, white, red, black skin sleek.
Ian C Smith’s work has been published in Antipodes, BBC Radio 4 Sounds,The Dalhousie Review, Griffith Review, San Pedro River Review, Southword, The Stony Thursday Book, & Two Thirds North. His seventh book, wonder sadness madness joy, is published by Ginninderra (Port Adelaide). He writes in the Gippsland Lakes area of Victoria, and on Flinders Island.
You can find more of Ian’s work here on Ink Pantry.
While doctoring the sun, my wife expounds On gradients of moonliness called “love.” Attending raves in giant fields, she’d tell Us, “Nothing is a drug,” and drop it like A mic. And neon lights berated costly Nights, so full of naked, blaring animus; If not, at least of intimations. Without A wink of hesitation, a raccoon is Digging through my trash outside; emaciated Martian with an ear for the eraser, like My wife, whose syllogisms overlapped with hope.
While proctoring tomorrows, Obama rounds The radiance of spoonerisms up to one. “Pretending saves a little space,” he’d tell Us (nothing like a bug), and pop it like A collar; neonates conflated bossy Rights – the pull of naked, blaring animus – With tons of steely scintillations. Pick out The pinkest nation: A cocoon is Hugging the rough trash inside me, wasted, Marshalling an iridescent pacer like My wife, her syllogisms home with overwhelm.
Sonnet for Democracy: or, Epigrams and Sound Bites of 2016
“You campaign in poetry. You govern in prose.” Mario Cuomo
Reporters quoted thermophilic Trump: “My wife’s the only girl I care to hump.” The New York Times lent Hillary its ear: “Your crossword puzzle suffers, much like Lear.” The brothers Koch were drips of condensation On the greenhouse ceiling; glass somatization. A Marxist Yankee ate a pound of fees To rush adrenaline’s fraternities. The Onion’s parodies: a haemorrhoid Deployed that contributions out-diploid. The categorical judicial branch Decided John Doe Jr.’s avalanche, At best, unconstitutional; and Scalia’s Dissent, “Divide the horse!”: paraphernalia.
“Abound but to abandon!” was the chant Protesting what The Talking Light was can’t.
Jake Sheff is a pediatrician and veteran of the US Air Force. He’s married with a daughter and several pets. Poems and short stories of Jake’s have been published widely. Some have even been nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology and the Pushcart Prize. His chapbook is Looting Versailles (Alabaster Leaves Publishing). A full-length collection of formal poetry, A Kiss to Betray the Universe, is available from White Violet Press.
Man with long alabaster hair Will they forgive me? Ghost woman fair man ecstasy White-lighten nightmare Playing fifty one deck solitaire Lost in Blue-silver Poetry Stopped stranded twining absurdity County Fair games unfair
Attributed to our raccoon Ghost-woman’s tenacity of hatreds to domestic Halloween Uncommon factor of similarity in work Two smoking globe turds puzzler Nocturnal perambulation alabaster shirt Rearing high feathering trail guzzler Mutate celibate in dirt The arc which it subtends muzzle
Life as the contretemps Queen Looking through the drape of clouds seeing the moon She let the sun fall on the floor at noon Lies so deep the bottom cannot be seen Woman’s enemies reason she drinks from a canteen Good bad or indifference looking over a lagoon Attributed to our raccoon Tenacity of hatreds Halloween
Sheaf of Yogurt
Yellowstone National Park Forward to sheaf of Yogurt Wide headers acumen shift She gazed at the lamplight shine She’s in a knockout snow drift Tense Portobello bruiser mine Threw in the towel broke swift Being Ten counted out after only nine
Tale of woe in her Crucified Shirt A most scandalous thing in the dark Today the hard working man’s walk Daughters Virgin Moon Desert The dames weighed in dirt Lotus ladies tend to the fire’s spark Lost in Yellowstone National Park Poet’s verses sheaf of Yogurt
Terry Brinkman has been painting for over forty five years. Has Five Amazon E- Books. Poems in Rue Scribe, Tiny Seed. Winamop, Snapdragon Journal, Poets Choice, Adelaide Magazine, Variant, the Writing Disorder, Ink Pantry, In Parentheses, Ariel Chat, New Ulster, Glove, and in Pamp-le-mousse, North Dakota Quarterly, Barzakh, Urban Arts, Wingless Dreamer, LKMNDS and Milk Carton Press.
You can find more of Terry’s work here on Ink Pantry.
The world is in a box the little timeworn world the countries of Lilliput the President of the king’s prime minister those kings, premiers and presidents those dwarfs in the scroll of time’s picture
They do not believe the additional sun both like a diamond and like gold make you warm in winter make you cool in summer
Neither have they seen the sweet ocean nor have they known heaven outside time forgotten those gods who like mountains are the ones the former ancients owned
世界在一只盒子里 这个小小陈旧的世界 一座座小人国 那些国王 首相 总统 那些时光画卷里的侏儒
他们不相信另外的太阳 既像钻石 又像黄金 在冬天时让你温暖 在夏天时让你凉爽
他们没见过甜蜜的海洋 也不知时光之外的天国 忘了那些山岳般的众神 是古老的曾经的自己
The King of the Diamonds
The sun was rising in my breast I woke up finally said goodbye to the night’s nightmare the world was lit up by me this is actually the real me
There is no longer day and night there are no longer newborns and death I got myself back before there was no earth and heaven I have existed from the beginning
The world is just my works: a picture, a poem a symphony. Give me a stone I will turn it into the king of the diamonds.
太阳在我胸膛里升起 我终于醒来 告别黑夜的梦魇 世界被我照亮 这才是真实的我
不再有白昼与黑夜 不再有新生与死亡 我找回了自已 在没有天地之前 我就早已经存在
世界只是我的作品 一幅画 一首诗 一部交响曲 给我一枚石头 我让它变成钻石之王
Yuan Hongri (born 1962) is a renowned Chinese mystic, poet, and philosopher. His work has been published in the UK, USA, India, New Zealand, Canada, and Nigeria; his poems have appeared in Poet’s Espresso Review, Orbis, Tipton Poetry Journal, Harbinger Asylum, The Stray Branch, Pinyon Review, Taj Mahal Review, Madswirl, Shot Glass Journal, Amethyst Review, The Poetry Village, and other e-zines, anthologies, and journals. His best known works are Platinum City and Golden Giant. His works explore themes of prehistoric and future civilization. Its content is to show the solemnity, sacredness and greatness of human soul through the exploration of soul.
Yuanbing Zhang (b. 1974), is Mr. Yuan Hongri’s assistant and translator. He himself is a Chinese poet and translator, and works in a Middle School, Yanzhou District, Jining City, Shandong Province China.
You can find more of Hongri’s work here on Ink Pantry.
It happened once before, when I was a young man. The newspapers clamoured for war, self-appointed know-it-alls told us why we had to fight and everyone believed them, especially the youngsters like me who got all fired up to join the army. So now, when those big headlines screamed ‘Remember The Maine,’ there wasn’t any more doubt that there would be war with Spain. And off they went to enlist, just like they were going to a picnic, as irreverent and ignorant as we were back in 1861. My eldest son told me he had to join up and I tried to discourage him. I told him how crazy it was for two groups of men to stand and blaze away at each other, but he wouldn’t listen. All he said was: “War’s not fought that way anymore, Pa .”
So I held my peace and watched him go, like my pa watched me go. When he died of yellow fever, before he even fought in a battle, it was another terrible affliction that I had to accept. But I guess he was right about it being a new kind of war, because it was over pretty quick and we got all these new places; Cuba, Puerto Rico, The Philippines and Guam. I never even heard of Guam. So I kept on farming and doing my chores but I was pretty much empty inside. I had been that way ever since the surrender at Appomattox, which ended my daily suffering, but left me a hollow man. I went through all the motions of the living and tried my best to be a good husband and father, and I never told anyone how I felt. How could anyone who hadn’t been there understand? Sometimes, when I went to town and saw the few old hands who survived the entire war, like me, there was nothing we could say. We just looked at each other for a moment, nodded in recognition that we were still alive and moved on.
Then one day, long after Spain surrendered, I saw a soldier who had just come home from the Philippines. I was buying something in Dahlgren’s general store and his pa brought him in. He had that look that I hadn’t seen since the war with the Yankees. His flesh was sagging on his bones and his uniform hung on him like a scarecrow on a hard luck farm. He walked as if it was a great effort to put one foot after the other. Old Mr. Dahlgren kept prodding him to tell us what it was like over there, but he refused to talk, until his pa urged him. Then he looked at everyone for a moment and said coldly: “You want to know what it was like? I’ll tell you. I watched my buddies die in ambushes, or of tropical diseases, or in battles with savages who just kept coming at us, even after we shot them. I watched my friends butcher women and children!” A look of absolute horror ate his face. “All I saw was death and suffering. Is that what you wanted to hear?” Then he turned and walked out. I couldn’t get him out of my mind the rest of the day.
That night I thought about the war with the Yankees, which I had shut out of my life a long time ago. I remembered how I had rushed to join up that spring of 1861. I ignored Pa when he told me not to go, just like my boy ignored me. Then Pa told me how bad it was when he fought the Mexicans in ‘46, but I didn’t believe him. Everyone I knew was hurrying to the colours and I wasn’t about to be last. We were going to whip the Yankees good, then go back home with our chests full of medals. Once I was in uniform it didn’t take long for me to wake up. Almost half the boys I joined up with got killed or wounded in our first battle at Manassas. Maybe the Yankees finally ran off as fast as they could for Washington D.C., but not before they put up a mighty good fight. We fought up and down Virginia for the next two years and got leaner, hungrier, tireder and sicker. The more we ran out of ammunition, food, or shoes, the more the Yankees kept coming. We learned everything about the horror of soldiering the hard way.
One day we were camped somewhere near Chancellorsville, after a tough battle where we whipped the Yankees good. Of course it wasn’t like when the war first started. Then we knew we were better men then the city folk and immigrants they were going to send against us. Before First Manassas, most of us talked about beating them proper, then going home. If anyone thought it would go on and on for years, they didn’t say it where I heard. Anyhow, we had been resting because it had been a long, hard fight and these Yankees weren’t like the rabbits who used to run when they were beaten. When these Yankees lost, they retreated resentfully and we knew they’d be back. Then the word raced through the camp. Stonewall was dead. Rumours, like disease, travel swiftly in an army, especially when it’s bad news. This hit me and the old hands particularly hard, because we were the 31st Virginia and we were Stonewall’s men from the beginning.
We rushed to colonel Barstow’s tent, but he didn’t know any more than we did. Messengers kept arriving, each one with different news. The only thing they all agreed on was that Stonewall had been shot. The colonel finally got tired of our pushing and shoving at the messengers and he sent us back to our bivouac area. But he promised to let our company commander, lieutenant Rambeau, know as soon as he learned anything. We thanked the colonel, who was one of only three officers left in the regiment who had been with us from the start. All the others had been killed or invalided out. Colonel Barstow had started as a young lieutenant, full of fire and noble speeches. Now he was as old and tired as the rest of us. We snickered about lieutenant Rambeau as we walked. He was a moma’s boy, a blonde-haired stringbean with a mushy face that always looked ready to cry. He had reported to the regiment a few days ago, but he disappeared somehow before the fighting started. The joke going around the camp was who would shoot him first, us or them. Soldiers deserted other regiments before a fight, but not in the 31st Virginia.
We waited for news, but didn’t relax much. A couple of the younger boys babbled about beating the Yankees again, but the old hands quickly shut them up. By now we knew we could beat them and beat them, but they would still keep coming. We were sick, tired, cold and hungry and we didn’t have much hope left. The gossip around the campfire was no longer about victory. A few diehards still kept trying to convince the rest of us that massa Robert and ole Stonewall would find a way to defeat the Yankees. Most of us didn’t buy it. Now Stonewall was dead. One of the kids asked what would happen if General Lee got killed, but an old hand kicked him a few times and the kid slunk off, leaving the rest of us to brood about things. I couldn’t help thinking how lucky that kid was to get off so lightly. We had just lost our father and that dumb kid was talking about losing our grandfather. We didn’t need any more bad luck.
Later that night we found out that Stonewall wasn’t dead, he was just badly wounded. He had been returning from the battlefield in the dark and a nervous sentry, thinking he was a Yankee goblin or something, shot him. After two years of hurry up, then wait, it wasn’t a hardship to wait for news. We lost so many men at Chancellorsville that I guess they forgot about our regiment for a while, so we loafed in our tents. Once we packed up all the dead men’s belongings, they finally remembered us. They even gave us some food, probably pilfered from the Yankees endless supply of everything. Then the word flew around camp faster than wildfire. A new recruit named Billy Rawlins had shot Stonewall. They didn’t rightly know what to do with him, so they sent him home.
After Stonewall died, the war went on and on and the Yankees kept us on the run. When it was finally over, those of us who survived went back to our homes. I was one of the lucky ones. Pa had kept the farm going somehow, despite the voracious armies trampling back and forth across poor, battered Virginia. I had only been home for a couple of months when I heard that the man who shot Stonewall Jackson, Billy Rawlins, had hanged himself. It seems his pa kept telling him that he killed the man who could have won the war for the Confederacy. I guess the damned fool kid must have believed him, because he went into the barn, threw a rope over a beam and ended his life… But that was a long time ago.
I hadn’t thought about Billy Rawlins for many years. Seeing that soldier in Dahlgren’s store reminded me about what had eaten so much of my soul away. It all came back to me from a distance, like hearing a voice on that new telephone invention: the useless waste of young men, the suffering that devastated so many lives, the ease with which we forgot the dead. All I could think of was that if I knew then what I knew now, I could have gone to see Billy. I could have told him that what he did was just one more crazy mistake in a succession of terrible events. That Stonewall couldn’t have won the war. Hell, it was lost way before that. Only fools believed that we could win after the first year or so. The Yankees had everything. We only had pride and courage. Once they wore out our pride, courage just wasn’t enough. But my understanding of things came much too late to help poor Billy. I couldn’t help that trooper who lost his soul in the jungle. And I sure couldn’t help any of the other innocents who don’t start wars, only rush to fight them.
Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theatre director and worked as an art dealer when he couldn’t earn a living in the theatre. He has also been a tennis pro, a ditch digger and a salvage diver. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway. His poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines and his published books include 21 poetry collections, 7 novels, 3 short story collections and 1 collection of essays. Published poetry books include: Dawn in Cities, Assault on Nature, Songs of a Clerk, Civilized Ways, Displays, Perceptions, Fault Lines, Tremors, Perturbations, Rude Awakenings, The Remission of Order and Contusions (Winter Goose Publishing, forthcoming is Desperate Seeker); Blossoms of Decay, Expectations, Blunt Force and Transitions (Wordcatcher Publishing, forthcoming are Temporal Dreams and Mortal Coil); and Earth Links will be published by Cyberwit Publishing. His novels include a series Stand to Arms, Marines:Call to Valor and Crumbling Ramparts (Gnome on Pigs Productions, forthcoming is the third in the series, Raise High the Walls); Acts of Defiance and Flare Up (Wordcatcher Publishing), forthcoming is its sequel, Still Defiant); and Extreme Change will be published by Winter Goose Publishing. His short story collections include: Now I Accuse and other stories (Winter Goose Publishing), Dogs Don’t Send Flowers and other stories (Wordcatcher Publishing) and The Republic of Dreams and other essays (Gnome on Pig Productions). The Big Match and other one act plays will be published by Wordcatcher Publishing. Gary lives in New York City.
You can find more of Gary’s work here on Ink Pantry.
The knock on the door always comes at the wrong time, when you’re lovemaking on a sunny Sunday afternoon, during a drug-drop when relatives pay a surprise visit, when the post delivery hands-over a court date as the landlady hammers the door for way overdue rent, when your new lover drops by with a surprise bottle of wine and you’re already fucked-up on narcotics and your previous lover is waiting on a call, when a political or religious pusher relentlessly pounds or when the season of ghosts and demons from your past, rip the door clean off its hinges, it’s time to throw away the key and look out at the countless shattered doors left in your wake.
One for Alfredo
First breath 1927, San Diego, early years spent in Mexico and then returned to USA in 1935 – he was expelled from High School for violence toward a tutor, sometime following he was arrested for smuggling people from South to North America, spent 4 years in San Quentin for possession of heroin and whilst incarcerated painted murals on the prison walls, on release he worked as a caricaturist for Disney for 2 years and in 1957 he opened up his own Art Gallery and in 1961 he was apprehended for 1 lousy joint of marijuana, Ajiijic, Mexico was his home for a while where he continued to paint and sculpt and express himself in various other mediums, he returned to the States seeking, as always, neither fame or fortune but continued creating and died in 2015, how Alfredo Santos, his life and work have been kept secret is a shameful, sad, sin, don’t take my word, see for yourself and make a startling discovery that the rich and ignorant ‘art establishment’ has, seemingly, closed its protected doors upon.
For Marianne Joan Elliott-Said (1957 – 2011)
We met on a couple of occasions, unfortunately, in a formal environment, but she genuinely appeared taken that I had recognised her and acknowledged her unique impact upon me that remains to this day: straight off, she was so warm and alive and we got grooving, she told me of the horrific pedestrian injuries of being hit by a fire truck some years back and how she had been making, producing and mixing recordings recently, this was just a few years before she lost to cancer: Poly Styrene was doing it herself decades before any sisters stepped into the light, her spirit moved with authenticity, blessed with talents that stretched smoothly over many mediums, creativity was deeply in her heart and blood and were more than just an extension of herself, this was her life that reached out across vast distances: Marianne Joan Elliott-Said sculptured pathways of beauty and sadness, she carried the torch of the muse, her voice and music and artworks resonating like a global choir of love and peace: Poly Styrene, I hear you now, I see you now, I feel you now, I sense you now, standing before me like a messenger broken free from all bondage of this uncertain world.
I couldn’t remember her name, although we’d been dating for a few weeks: an invitation came for a private viewing of Jonathan Coles paintings and latest works: within 15 minutes of the opening, this woman, whose name I couldn’t remember, gripped attention by climbing up into the loft rafters and swinging and screeching nonsense, hanging upside down, exposing skimpy panties and long, long legs and streams of bright red hair tumbling toward the ground: ‘Who the fuck is she?’ ‘What the fuck is she doing?’ ‘I don’t know,’ I told them ‘What the fuck! call her down man! get her down!’ ‘I don’t know her name,’ I said ‘Get her the fuck down now!’ ‘Hey! Hey! come on now! time to come down now!,’ I shouted, waving my hands: she dropped to the floor, the loft studio stood still in utter silence as she walked towards me: she looked angry, serious: ‘Fuck you! I don’t know you! I don’t know your fucking name but you don’t fucking tell me to stop enjoying myself!’ she screamed at me before making her exit from the studio and I never saw her again, whatever, her name was, but I guess, it didn’t matter too much.
John D Robinson is a UK based poet: hundreds of his poems have appeared online and in print : he has published 14 chapbooks and four full collections of his poetry: he has also published a novel of fiction and a collection of short stories: he has been nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize.
You can find more of John’s work here on Ink Pantry.
The vault opens itself at dawn. The calyx of an Arctic alpine forget-me-not reopens for an enchanting glory of the sunshiny dreams, because of the eternally august poem, that reads lenient and benignant.
Throughout the day: there is up there a paradisiacal flight of all halcyon seraphim, singing through the stoicism, eudemonia of many celestial dreamers.
Under the sun: a rhythm in wings of butterflies. After evenfall: the paradise closes itself. The springtide has gone to bed in aestival splendor.
In addition overnight a balmy sempiternity sleeps as well. Here below a sensitive firefly flies, above so ravishing earth. In danger owing to the raveners of the night. Indeed spared thanks to the sheen of Luther’s star. The earth becomes a dazzling hereafter. It remains not far from June sparks, the little fire.
vault – (poetical) sky
benignant – mild
halcyon – peaceful
seraphim – seraphs
aestival – summery
ravener – bird of prey
sempiternity – eternity
Paweł Markiewicz was born 1983 in Siemiatycze in Poland. He is poet who lives in Bielsk Podlaski and writes tender poems, haiku as well as long poems. Paweł has published his poetries in many magazines. He writes in English and German.
You can find more of Paweł’s work here on Ink Pantry.