The Poetry of Canaan Massie

CANAAN MASSIE BIO:

My name is Canaan Massie. I am 18 years old and I would like to become a published author.

Nightmares Of Paradise

What does an angel dream,

If such a feat is so possible?

Of life on earth?

Or of the paradise in which he resides?

And what of demons?

Consumed in flames,

Does slumber ever seduce Satan?

It must.

If so, He must dream of heaven,

Of when he harbored angelic ailerons,

Of when he was his own sworn enemy,

Of unattainable paradise.

As Gabriel as his Angel of Death,

And God his own enemy's creator,

Satan dreams not,

For He has Nightmares Of Paradise.

Envy

They say envy turns you green,

But for me, I disagree.

Envy is red,

The color of romance.

I envy your shirt,

It constantly gets to caress your body.

I envy your cigarettes,

Constantly at your lips.

I envy the words that you speak,

For they are much more beautiful than I.

I envy the ground you walk upon,

For I want to be the only thing pleading at your feet.

I envy your phone.

Constantly at your fingertips,

Caressing your cheek.

You speak into it,

And I hear "I love you."

I envy whomever lurks on the other side.

I envy your pillows,

Because I know you cuddle with them when I am not there.

I envy your necklace,

For it is constantly closer to your heart than I'll ever be.

I envy the medicine that you take,

For I want to be what takes your pain away.

You tell your tales,

And I am envious of your past.

Mostly because I am absent from your memories.

They say envy turns you green,

But for me, I disagree.

Envy has no color.

Only silhouettes.

Heaven's Mockery

O star...

How you mock me.

Away from earthly oppressions.

Safe, is thee,

Hung home in heaven.

I envy your distance,

From this place we call earth.

You feel no resistance,

No pain, and no hurt.

For your father, an immortal,

And your mother owns all.

You feel no torture,

Only wished upon when you fall.

O star,

How you mock me.

How dost thee shine so bright?

And if thou art blue,

You still emulate light.

The Poetry of Sy Roth

SY ROTH BIO:
He is a retired school administrator living on Long Island. After spending years in the wilderness of work, he finally has time to think and write. He has published in Visceral Uterus and two works to-be-published in Amulet in August and September. He has also had several essays published in Newsday.

Penn Station

Penn Station entrance,

he leans ungracefully

smudges the wall.

crowds pass him,

rheumy eyes hidden behind heavy

droopy lids,

visible parts twinkling with chicanery.

his crooked mien sings dissimulation.

no pleading signs bedeck him,

weighted only with deflated balloon-dreams

draped around his neck

hissing long dissipated air

into the ether.

boxes of sadness

closet him.

unkept promises,

exigencies

cram the valleys of his being

buried in river muck

of glacier-gouged pasts, a

substrata of his flaccid dreams.

no entreaties,

only surrender,

trapped in his mind-doors.

sounds of the city

girdle him;

he unembraced.

Idle Water Thoughts

they hack through the earth’s core

machines biting it,

slipping their long pipes into the aquifer

squirrling through thin layers to find water

mussing lush patches of her

lusting for her water.

I’m thirsty.

a dog pees against the cobblestones,

its owner tapping his foot

whistling a you-don’t-see-me tune

I conjectured—

at the seemingly endless flow, and

the dog’s ahhhhh grin

as his urine burden splashes.

an idle thought wiggles in

traipsing through for a playful second--

I see a Tyrannosaurus Rex behind my eyes

and I watch him pee

lifting his huge leg,

evacuating his bladder--

how much water would he produce?

a lake?

fill a cairn?

I think.

I imagined the waters of millions of Tyrrani

filling reservoirs.

I watch their water seep into the soil

and leak into yellow cisterns for millennia.

perhaps the waters of those gothic beasts

nourish us today,

we being blessed

by the nurturing waters of the gargantuas.

My thirst slaked.

final observation--

that dog scratches at the ground with its hind paws,

marches snappily behind its owner

unconcerned that he could

be hydrating future generations

the corers, as well, still pierce

unwittingly.

I laugh.

Love Song

hate and love side-by-side,

vexing each other.

a capricious love song

mutilates their heart-places.

chaos

rings in rolling peals

creates phantasms that Hiroshimize walls.

silently they muster

glaring eyes

and shuffle their shoulders

in opposite directions.

frightened children,

victims of a lilting threnody--

in search of specters,

entombed spirits,

and purring witches that

dip-stick into dreams

stirring a cauldron’s brew,

of gossamer conflicts.

and goggle-eyed black cats

extricated from sealed walls.

perverse confessions follow

like rats gnawing through walls.

they are dressed in gloomy grieving vestments

swaying to the melancholic whining

for a lost master.

spent,

they slink away.

Ebon Wall

black wall

monumentally immense,

solid ebon relic of horrors

balled into its inky interior.

impermeable blackness,

darker than the grave

inviting long beginnings

and artlessly quick endings.

head flinches with the trigger

a dreadful scowl splashes their faces

as they slip to the ground.

I live there,

exist on a millennium-long,

bone-weary blotch of earth.

borne away at times

in liquid moments,

to return, and wait

to be prodded erect in front of her

bespattered wall

smelling of iron

comingled with chlorine,

overshadowed by the smell of disquietude—

no windows to peer out of

no windows in

a permanent black hole

impervious.

electric sense of expectancy

static charges ever present.

howls of incredulity

vibrate the air turbulently like a tsunami

a tectonic movement of the plates of the earth

shifting and grinding against one another

like frenzied lovers

and I rest without expectation of climax

feeling it.

a red hot eminence sits within,

buried deeply,

a hand will eventually drag me in.

Black Nuggets

unsuppressed desire and

cloudy intentions

reside in the brutish nightmares

of Lucifer’s dreams.

they swim in the ebon cauldron

as the witches stir an unbridled brew

mixing in a thimbleful of this and that,

a pricked pinch of blood,

a miniscule inky dot,

then cast spells

loosing black nuggets into

in the soup of beings.

mole-like, these nuggets

dig, then roar to the surface with the

wooly ambition a freight train.

they will bear their fruit in those

bifurcated-genome-sequenced beings

who live awash in their own egos.

that dark seed,

gees and haws them indiscriminately.

once hidden

behind a scrim of verisimilitude,

they fly out of a twelfth story window

and end with a splat.

The quagmire

the blue bubble

glumly sinks

beneath the weight of

insatiable beings who

consume

rather than build.

fading agate

teeter-totters

under the weight of their

puerile inanities.

few saviors

buried among them--

she, the builder

with trowels in one hand,

weapons in the other

willing to defend her creations.

he, possessor of a world

which began

as a big bang of words

clapped together like chalk erasers

and a

willingness to risk all

to keep tomes spun gold

with words

from the funeral pyre where

nestled in their folds

truths lay in wait.

until then,

the quagmire

is our siren.

Nabobs of Illusion

nabobs of illusion--

these nabis pontificate,

exhort,

sing their own praises

strew wishes upon the wind

like Johnny Appleseeds

creating groves and verdant fields.

they appear profound,

these gurus,

nested atop mountains

contemplating their eternity.

bogeymen who lack insight

hide behind their truths,

freeze their declarations of right

into ice cream treats

to be licked clean

by hungry masses.

conceive ideas in cigar-smoked laboratories,

inventing treacly mixtures

concocted to whet appetites,

urge their poster-carrying seals

to bark at the dangling treats,

fin-clapping din filling carnival tents.

scared muammin abdicate

like fleshless musselmen and

pay homage

cramming prayers into wall cracks.

nabis engender fear,

flouncing minds

in their whipped wind.

The quagmire

the blue bubble

glumly sinks

beneath the weight of

insatiable beings who

consume

rather than build.

fading agate

teeter-totters

under the weight of their

puerile inanities.

few saviors

buried among them--

she, the builder

with trowels in one hand,

weapons in the other

willing to defend her creations.

he, possessor of a world

which began

as a big bang of words

clapped together like chalk erasers

and a

willingness to risk all

to keep tomes spun gold

with words

from the funeral pyre where

nestled in their folds

truths lay in wait.

until then,

the quagmire

is our siren.

The Poetry of Kislay Chauhan

Kislay Chauhan BIO:

My poems are under the terms of emotion that are generally related to every person in their lives. All of sudden there are azimuthal travel on the carpet of deep tranquil mind and the togetherness of heart also. Most of my poems are collectively touchy and thinkable about self. As you would go through deeper in the poems, there will be much soulful touch for you through the terrain of my words and the world of the diligent feeling of love attachment to life.

1. " Afternoon Desert "
   
   Tides in absorbed sunlight, dry sand desert
   Whitish glare, seeking mirror boats
   Where time is dried, moments sweat
   Music in flames, days on the roots
   Dewdrops of morning search shadow
   Where sun is more leaned, cleaned but hard
   The outsized branches, curvy eyes of leaves
   Stony feet the sharp fingers digging surface
   The labors with spades mining the place
   Small spiders with sewing tensing wounds
   Blocking airs impelling to breath high
   With black and white scenes and sky
   Turning years of hooks and scissors without rain
   Striving bones, sore throats of birds and beasts
   And then steady rocks of bronzed silence
   Little weeds the waiters of years
   And no one dares, no one hears
   Only the tails of trees bounding water
   Spongy blue ribs spread out of chest
   The boats only mirages peeping far away
   Forever a mirage alone never gets any meet
   Dazzling waves decorate them hanging mirrors
   The last storm all forgot but still the signs there
   Desert fencing borders far of the crowds
   Where only cheerful nights smile
   And afternoon songs are tired unto evenings
   When all the stars dine together
   On sand-sheet, sand with resting eyes

2. " An Old Age "
   
   A mechanical heart, desolated
   Standing solemn around weaving silky water
   Water of eyes, inveterate healer
   On grass of sorrow by wind directing ways
   Lifted breath burden on the lungs
   Frightened gazes of nerves hugging heart
   Dripping sights of memory in front of legs
   The day of last heartbeat of his words
   Dissolving in fog of all directions,
   Peeping shadows of memories from cloak
   Someone almost lost the grace of life
   And somewhere pulses thunder to get out
   Rotten skin with blooming sights and spirit
   The layers of irregular breath stiffened
   Where every valley is not straight to cross
   Distinguished desires without any complaints
   Certain limping stick in hand for way
   Every step, summing up a journey
   Dull head, digging shoulders, wide glasses
   Which seems something binocular badges
   Lost quartz of teeth, shrugging expression
   Occasional smiles filling lonely times
   He just needs help to cross that road
   And lakes of sorrow and solitude
   And listening last seasonal singing of birds
   Every step with folding calm days in arms
   Preaching eyes of life need assistance of love
   An old man carrying belief of life, belief of life

3. " Seashore Witness "
   
   Slowing prints, waves take a walk
   With numbed faces for one end
   Once again looping fear was formed there
   Over still eyes of snails by offshore wind
   Some striding crabs around coastline
   Tear-stains the patches by seaside
   Along wet sand I would like to retire
   Stillness of darker truth and my life
   The misty colors in straight sun strings
   Inaudible songs of seagulls and seabirds
   A misty silence, a moving street
   The drops steal my back footprints
   Two lonely rooms, my soul, my shadow
   Over and over, many times through my breath
   Thick peeling off earth’s surface under feet
   Setting up a dream-house through seashore
   A single dream, floating with every ray
   Rising different gleams, different dreams
   Over and over till end to end
   A breezing ghost, with siren sound by ears
   And in far away blue waves
   Binders of my breath—
   Many things unsolved there spread stones
   The diaphanous destinations change stations
   With every tide, with every wobble
   A dried log of life witness there from years
   Broken both sides and dubious eyes
   That was the last meeting with that log
   At that last night, when dreadful wave came
   Then all witnesses were ended forever
   
   

4. " Face of The Nature " 
    
   Slowing prints, waves take a walk
   With numbed faces for one end
   Once again looping fear was formed there
   Over still eyes of snails by offshore wind
   Some striding crabs around coastline
   Tear-stains the patches by seaside
   Along wet sand I would like to retire
   Stillness of darker truth and my life
   The misty colors in straight sun strings
   Inaudible songs of seagulls and seabirds
   A misty silence, a moving street
   The drops steal my back footprints
   Two lonely rooms, my soul, my shadow
   Over and over, many times through my breath
   Thick peeling off earth’s surface under feet
   Setting up a dream-house through seashore
   A single dream, floating with every ray
   Rising different gleams, different dreams
   Over and over till end to end
   A breezing ghost, with siren sound by ears
   And in far away blue waves
   Binders of my breath—
   Many things unsolved there spread stones
   The diaphanous destinations change stations
   With every tide, with every wobble
   A dried log of life witness there from years
   Broken both sides and dubious eyes
   That was the last meeting with that log
   At that last night, when dreadful wave came
   Then all witnesses were ended forever

5. " Heart Of Wood "
   
   Somewhere a box filled emotions
   Of wood, built round bit for life
   Different cherishes keeping in
   Supplying sets of dreams’ belief
   A lock of ego, anger and hate
   With key of help, kindness and love
   The sides varnished with tender
   A sort of wood flinching in fear
   Slanted, corners of silence, spiritual
   Stiffing to ground, burns in fire
   Fire of love, hurt and desires
   Wrapping cloths of seasons boiling
   Lonely narrow boxes...
   Strange boards made of wood
   Devouring colors of surfaces
   Edges broken, steeping to ground
   An old tomb, with torn boundary
   A monument lasts for a breath
   Breath that unlocks lock, loneliness
   Wooden box, clouds, rains and keys
   Sunlight heals it up, an artifact
   Parallel conditions, stars run above
   May be one day, we put it as monument
   Lonely, only memory of old swarms
   When it used to have everything
   Heart of wood, now in a museum
   Motionless, a show for strangers
   Having life, all of wood, to be painted
   Or to be burned to warm some

The Poetry of Dawnell Harrison

Dawnell Harrison Bio:

Dawnell has been published in over 65 magazines and journals including The Endicott Review, Fowl Feathered Review, The Bitchin' Kitsch, Vox Poetica, Abbey, Iconoclast, Puckerbrush Review, Nerve Cowboy, Mobius, and many others.Also, he has had 3 books of poetry published through reputable publishers titled Voyager, The maverick posse, and The fire behind my eyes.

A wintry fever

I feel the chill of winter

In the white marrow of my bones –

A wintry fever.

The cold winds steers through ice

Like an ax to wood.

I lay on the bed,

My pallor as bleached as death –

No respite from the long, wide

Cold of the night.

The love’s run dry but the moon

Cradles me like a great white Madonna.

Lost

Moonlight licks the back

Doorstep eaves.

Shadows whisper

In the deep dark hole

Of the night.

Lost in a black space

The roses bleed the

Backyard red.

The night swallows me

In a quivering circle.

Reflection

The reflection of garnets

Darkens in the sullen night

Of your eyes.

Once they were little crushed

Diamonds of light.

Your body is a stream

That leave me holding

Emptiness.

Your eyes are winters

Glazed in ice.

The world whitens

Under the ashes

Of your memories.

 

Autumn grows cold

autumn grow cold,
water-hooded mother.

mornings diffuse
into  somnolence.

the sun fires too late
as the moor laments.

frost thickens on the grass.
the gift of plenitude
has no house here.

Summer

The yard is plump

With a plethora of petals.

White magnolias

With their opaque veneers

Cast a white shadow

In their abundance.

A turtle dove rudders down.

Sand colored feathers

Are being arranged and

Rearranged in the first

Glimpse of summertime.

Blackberries darken.

Their succulent juices

Are ready to burst forth

Into wanting mouths

With their juices staining

Your hands like purple

Colored blood.

Clean linen on the clothesline

Throw its stark white

Bleached scent

Into the flowery air.

Summer has a hearty

Home here.