Rendez-vous in San Nicolas

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I will not meet you there directly, no
we will meet at Mirador San Nicolas
on the outskirts of Granada and there
we will dine and catch up on so many things
as it has been several incarnations, since last
we were face to face – and it is from there that
we journey together, thou and I, to hear nightingales
beneath a cloudfree sky of robin’s egg blue
and we will listen to a little concert of the Goyescas
of Granados and you will laugh because the encore
will be called a la cubana and I will laugh too
and later when we have reached it
we will hear de Falla’s Noches en los Jardines de España –
En el Generalife the jasmine-scented gardens
around the palace of the king’s harem at Calat el-hamra
La Alhambra – the red – because of the sunsets
on the ancient ancient walls
how long have I longed to go there with you –
a thousand years of conquest and reconquest
and Berber kings of Al-Andalus and the Nasrid dynasty
moorish palaces with their long reflecting pools
that at night are filled with dancing stars
and we will get drunk on the scent of roses, and you
will spin me tales as we wander through the orange groves
and not only horror stories of pillage in Latin America and
we will forgive the tyrants and the jesuits – the imperialists
the Incas, the Mayans, the Catholics – everyone
we will forgive them all and listen only to the fountains

Timea Deinhardt
https://timeadeinhardt.wordpress.com

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The Gift

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Her voice drew me across the riverbank,
up the creek canyon, through the trees,
past devil’s club and foggy nettles,
seeking the source of the pure water.

I longed for distant sunrise break-thought,
the spotted owl revealed herself in song,
demanding quick ascent as light
within light became a seed of thought
enfleshed within my dawning mind.

On western heights I turned to face the valley
as Sun’s break pierced earth’s volcanic spine
my breath took in the moment’s magic pulse.
I had never been more grounded
in Terra’s soft enfoldment,
my forest-bound birds of thought
pulled wide the cosmic snare.

I soared to distant stellar sectors
freed from matter’s broken shell.
Time stood still in gravity’s storm,
I bowed down to her, the One,
she stood behind the doorway’s buzz.

I slowly returned, incarnated again
in the outer-dimensional world.
I felt the silky solar warmth
begin to penetrate my wintered face.
I picked up Athena’s shield
fallen from the sky beside me.

With a briefcase, jacket, and tie
I found my way downtown again
to the unkind judges, the courts of lies
gifted with a child’s hope and strength
for yet another day’s battle

Robert J. Foss
http://allpoetry-classic.com/Betoangel

Armchair Explorer

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I peek cautiously through the kitchen blinds.
It’s like a BBC 2 jungle documentary out there,
A green canopy growing wild and untamed.
Nature is reclaiming my garden,
and I feel like
this is a job for another day.

I tentatively open the cupboard door.
It’s like an explosion in a skip,
no antiques or heirlooms here.
This is Tutankhamen’s stuff for the tip
rubbish unfit for any afterlife.
Another job for another day.

I’m no Attenborough or Carter
Fearlessly investigating or excavating.
Instead I brave the TV channels
to visit far away lands
armed with a cup of tea
Sitting comfy in my armchair.

Richard Archer
https://skaggythepoet.wordpress.com

A Most Familiar Thing

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You see it everywhere,
this detached oddfellow
rolled up in gutters
leaning on lamp posts
dust covered and weed riven,
in every town from Marseilles to Berlin
along the Mississippi,
washed up by the Seine
this scatterling castaway
not able to hold on
skidding off into oblivion

Unfastened Flying Objects
that can’t find their cars
from the top of Mt. Everest
to the parking lots of Mars-
plastic moon hubcap
cheap modern design
ubiquitous fake chrome fixture
an alien creature
from the planet Audi, Ford or Fiat-
a testament to the fact
that man cannot permanently
fix anything.

D.E.Stevens
https://stevenspost.wordpress.com

My Silent Occupations

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although the nearest neighbours
are a mile away, I tell myself
these silent occupations
are designed to not wake them.
What is there to do at 5 am?

I scan the room, decide to proceed
with a needed floral funeral
to remove the now-colourless
and wizened jonquils that once
were inserted precisely
to add colour to philodendron cuttings
set in water to grow roots.

The viscous brown stems
now in the shadow of a cannister
are living worms, seemingly mobile,
soft and ready to wiggle
on the kitchen counter.

I shudder at the ghoulishness
of an autopsy turned vivisection
but manage to distract myself
with the amusing paradox
that plants must be sunk in the ground –
buried – that they may live.

c.m.anderson
http://allpoetry-classic.com/catimini

still life in prose and on pastel board

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you stand against
an open window

i can barely discern
the outline of your body

merged with light
it becomes light itself

powdery and fragrant
like talc

the foreground
is a vase of tulips

a lavender-blue
light strikes

and disperses
from their stalks

still life with woman

who writes poems
and buys herself
flowers

she likes the
calm proportions

what stirs inside
their closed tulip hearts

Seema Chopra

Quotes floating on the editor’s desk. No. 1

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“All of that art-for-art’s-sake stuff is BS. What are these people talking about? Are you really telling me that Shakespeare and Aeschylus weren’t writing about kings? All good art is political! There is none that isn’t. And the ones that try hard not to be political are political by saying, ‘We love the status quo.’ We’ve just dirtied the word ‘politics,’ made it sound like it’s unpatriotic or something.

“That all started in the period of state art, when you had the communists and fascists running around doing this poster stuff, and the reaction was ‘No, no, no; there’s only aesthetics.’ My point is that it has to be both: beautiful and political at the same time. I’m not interested in art that is not in the world. And it’s not just the narrative, it’s not just the story; it’s the language and the structure and what’s going on behind it. Anybody can make up a story.”

― Toni Morrison

Farewell Spit

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the longest spit
of sand is called
Farewell
it comes and goes
as moon dictates

its sickle talon
snatches shallow fish
and beckons whales
to beach
while overhead relentless
sun and swirling gulls

local folk arrive
with buckets
and wet sheets
cold nights are spent
with new, warm-blooded friends

but when dry sand prevails
then others come
with knives
the bones belong to them
they shout

but whisper as they carve
to keep away
the toxic fear
that haunts this golden bay

Maggie Z Brown
https://allpoetry.com/Margrit

Over 300 pilot whales were recently stranded and died on this sand spit in Golden bay, NZ. Whale strandings here are not uncommon and have been happening for generations, but the actual cause remains a mystery.