Nia Simone reading poems by John Holland on video:
"Wheels Within" (from Under The Dog Star) read by Californian poet, author and blogger Nia Simone:
http://niasimoneauthor.com/2013/11/10/reading-wheels-within-by-john-holland-read-by-me/
Closed for Cleaning:
http://niasimoneauthor.com/2013/11/20/reading-closed-for-cleaning-by-john-holland/
*********************************
"Wheels Within" (from Under The Dog Star) read by Californian poet, author and blogger Nia Simone:
http://niasimoneauthor.com/2013/11/10/reading-wheels-within-by-john-holland-read-by-me/
Closed for Cleaning:
http://niasimoneauthor.com/2013/11/20/reading-closed-for-cleaning-by-john-holland/
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Poetry Sans Frontieres is pleased to be able to feature the work of American poet Cynthia Gaines. I've known Cynthia for six years or so and have always admired her work. So enjoy! ~John Holland~
Keep scrolling down to read the work of poets:
Cynthia Gaines
Pamela A. Lamppa
Yvette Champ
Robert Niswander
Nia Simone (Also read her book, The Last Straw: Available now on
Kindle
Seema Chopra
John Holland
Adam Henry Carriere
Leanne Hanson
*********************************************************************************************
Haiku/Senryu by Cynthia Gaines
Welcome Home
A world of houses
and within every household
a world of struggles
Rejected
Unemployed worker
leaving no pebble unturned
finds hungry shadow
Rhythm of the Sea
Tidal waves crashing
briny scent of foam, life,death
pulsing mystery
Windswept
Staggering beneath
obliterated mem'ries
life's infinite storm
The Empty Cave
The cave of my mind
houses many empty walls
etchings long erased
Daily Bread
Absolute truths find
their way into daily bread
and in the lack of
The Cost of War
Nothing lasts - and yet
coffin laden cargo plane
defines world unchanged
Signs of Life
Spirited horses
of the wild west roam freely
on painted billboards
Sea of Life
In the sea of life
give yourself up to the wave
and float upon it
Tranquility
Mirror Lake reflects
open window of my soul
peaceful harmony
©
Cynthia Gaines, All Rights Reserved
Author Notes:
While my theme is not always intrinsically based upon "Nature" per se, I generally follow the
5-7-5 format in writing Haiku verse. Essential to each piece would be the "Aha!
moment" which is considered the defining zen element in a well-written Haiku. It
is my hope that you enjoy reading my poems, inspired by the Japanese poet,
Matsuo Munefusa Basho 静かな (1644-1694).
********************************************************************8
Poetry by Pamela A. Lamppa
Palaver
If there had been
kinder times
perhaps wine would
not be bitter
and pasta would be
"al dente"
I learned that term
from an Italian
grandmother who
smiled her pride
before boxing her
grandson's ears
She died a
horrible death
pancreatic and
stomach cancer
her devoted husband
at her side the
entire time
They were nasty people,
proclaimed ritzy
in a ditzy disarray
of orange and red
against maroon
"and you?"
they'd ask
as if they dined
with Rockefeller
before taking
communion
They had a way of
judging
that made you
question your value
until you understood
their art of
confession
Still...
I am sad she had
so much pain
in the end, though
I will not miss
the woman
~Pamela A. Lamppa~
USA
http://pamelaalamppa.blogspot.com.au
**********************************************************************************************
Poetry by Yvette Champ:
Into the "O" Zone
It hasn't eluded me completely,
(like the aftertaste of almonds)
the empirical senselessness
that feminists write of to address
whilst holding fast to phallic-shaped pens,
squirting the alpha and omega
of the alphabet akin to sexist
spermatozoa across the cervix
of the page, pulped and as easy
as a good time girl
who empathizes with Don Quixote.
It's all about appetites,
the power to deflower
virgin territory safely sitting astride
an office chair with love-eggs
from Victoria'sSecrets
pleasuring internal agendas,
whilst deploying blood-bank-red ink
to speak of communism,
capitalism and Lesbos,
any other 'ism, Vietnam
Iraq and Afghanistan.
The wear and tear upon artistry
that is infiltrated by the news
and the role-play, the la la la
of language forced to have
Freudian intercourse with punctuation,
thrusting emotion into fleshed folds
of origami tattooes that won't
make their way onto the broadsheets
of bodies already inked with heiroglyphics,
picture windows into the church of the mind
that even aliens could read
without decoding which colour flag
is flown or why.
~Yvette Champ~
****************************************
Females that I adore
Women that I adore
are mellow-yellow,
laced-tight inside
a body of good intentions,
sparkly, shiny, silvered,
like treasured jewellery;
I watch them grow
and glow within such finery.
~Yvette Champ~
*****************************************
Poetry by Robert Niswander.
Incorruptible
In an ocean of humanity he is an island set alone,
a hardened soul that’s morality is cast in stone.
Pressured are us all from the tentacles of our peers,
But beyond any reasoning he is unbroken by any fears.
Solid is his way that he will not compromise ever to save his own life,
For he bare no weakness in any mental strife.
He will die just to prove that it was his very right,
Fueled by his own pride carrying his might.
No foreign substances have polluted his body or mind,
For he just bares down on hope and continues his grind.
Nothing to ease the pain of the day,
He just cries out and closes his eyes and waits for it all to go away.
A man of this caliber is but the best in us all
For he will not stop even if he is backed against the wall.
Why is he so strong and most of us are weak,
What is the formula for this Incorruptibility I seek?
Incorruptible A man as an island in a sea of humanity we call life,
Taking it all face-to-face and living with the hurt of every strife.
By Robert Niswander Aka Plot121
http://rnplot121.blogspot.com/
************************************************************************************************************
On A Mound Of Dirt
Clouds hung over their heads telling of the gloom in their strife,
Looking down at the mound of dirt was a son missing his mother and a father missing his wife
Hands interlocked no real word was passed from lips into the air,
And with out saying it they both knew this was so unfair.
Tears were the only activity that ventured this land of grim,
And the thought of happiness again in their lives seemed so slim.
Memories of love rushed in like waves pounding and ocean shore,
Crashing emotion into pain like a slamming door.
No bruise or scar would ever show the loss of what they once had,
Except in the faces of distraught child and a doubting dad.
Who would tend to my son that I really never knew,
For he was just his father what love could he do.
His job was to keep food on the table and protect and provide,
Leaving his true love for his son in a place to hide.
A masked face is all his son come to know for what was his life,
Fore the truest of all nurturing came from his father’s wife.
She was the one that held him and tended to him when pain would show its face,
She was his salvation when dad was not in their dwelling place.
The boy looked up dreading the road that laid before them this time,
And he sulked and he retreated a foot back wondering who would punish of this crime.
The man saw the boy take a step back and felt uncomfortable as reality set in,
And he breathed in slowly knowing that if he did not keep his promise to his wife it would be a sin.
In a look that seemed strange from an ever frowning face came a uncertain grin,
And with the slightest of his hand he smiled and ask the child where do I begin.
Puzzled by the phase the from a man he knew little of,
he some how felt what he had lost was his fathers love.
The man knelt down and grabbed his son and whispered you mother meant the world to me
understand you are the ending product of our love and remember the best part of her resides in you see.
There will be hard times for time is not a easy thing to master,
But with hope and your mother’s love we can divert any disaster.
I will screw up and I know you will get on my last nerve,
But we need to love each other for its what your mother deserves.
I made a promise to do what she now can no longer do,
For all I am all I love about your mother is in you.
Eyes gazed in the face of his boy hoping an answer would come forth and ease his heart,
And as the boy grabbed his fathers hand he said softly, Yes that’s a good start.
A smile and a hug followed and though times got hard and there was pain and hurt,
For a promise was kept throughout their life time beside that mound of dirt.
Still the mother was ever present but just beyond their sight,
For she bore the brightest gift of all hope her love which shined a beacon of light.
By Robert Niswander Aka Plot121
http://rnplot121.blogspot.com/
**************************************************************************
Inspiration By the Flame
A match is struck in the blackness of night,
I pass over the wick and see through candle's only light.
I was awaken with a voice with in me,
a voice telling a story of being set free.
So strong is it's words, it burns as the flame,
engulfing me in it's thought's name.
The wick burn in delight,
baring a thought that continues to fight.
My hands peck words that come to mind,
and low and behold, a story I find.
With every flicker and wisp of a hand,
I find the words take there stand.
A story and a voice that only I knew,
yet as I write, they come true.
Still my hands stir, wanting more,
as the wax burns down the side, hitting the floor,
I am humbled with every word wrote,
creating in this area, for total remote.
My hand now strains with the constant motion,
but my head drives on with every notion.
The candlelight falls to the flame,
and low and behold the sun shows it’s fame.
So much light I see the story to it's end,
but knowing that candle was nights loving friend.
By Robert Niswander Aka Plot121
http://rnplot121.blogspot.com/
*******************************************************************************************
Nia Simone:
Minds Meet Before Their Time
Above still waters
hangs a moon.
The light is white
the water black.
In a silver shadow
a man looks back
to the birth
of all that is.
In a dappled wood
stands a fawn.
Below the pines
berries hang
from bended stems
and velvet leaves.
Upon the berries
birds take seeds.
Upon the path and
through the leaves,
walks a girl who dreams
of a man who stands
in a silver shadow.
~Nia Simone~
http://niasimoneauthor.com/poetry/
Moth Man
Is your fear of the light
because of this -
it is fire
and your heart
a thin wing of chitin?
Do you huddle in the alley
thinking you disguise
your beautiful,
human face
with grime?
I behold you there,
in the shadows.
The light in your eyes
you think no one can see
through crusty, leftover sleep.
You are mistaken there,
Human Being,
You can't avoid the light,
It is within
You.
~Nia Simone~
http://niasimoneauthor.com/poetry/
The Canopy
Water weaves
through trees.
Leaves shadow dance
on pools.
Lovegrass cushions
the feet
of a man
on a river bank
whose line arcs
through sunlight.
~Nia Simone~
http://niasimoneauthor.com/poetry/
Even further
You go further
than not stopping.
And whenever I think
I know what's next,
you throw in
a twist.
Or else we're running
side by side,
hand in hand
the wind blowing
our clothes off
so we can fly
naked --
not to the sun --
but just a bit off the earth
and back.
Four feet,
toes curling and releasing
in sand,
foot prints erased by
water,
but the runners
always knowing
they've been
in the sky.
~Nia Simone~
http://niasimoneauthor.com/poetry/
***********************************************************
SEEMA CHOPRA
because you don’t like words anymore
the house has accepted your absence
though it groans when
i climb the stairs, walk
to your room
other people have come
and slept in your bed
put things on the nightstand
gazed at the pictures i hung
on the wall for you
i’ve started running again
the air tastes like green apples
not the thick syrup it was when
you were here
the squirrel has put on weight
walks funny
I keep writing these postcards
inside my head
it’s easy to tear them because
i don’t imagine the paper
too thick
~Seema Chopra~
these days of summer and sanity
letting the days pass like they are a river
and i am the sidewalk where
people sit gazing at air
where kids rollerblade
and women in frocks ride vintage bicycles
and i let the days pass like they are airplanes
and what can i do from the ground
but watch?
and i let the days pass like i am the keeper
of a lighthouse or a bridge and days
are these great sailboats with important
cargo and beautiful people
they will go to some exotic town
where the churches are white
and medieval
and the streets free to wind however
they want
~Seema Chopra~
at the farmers market, while i lugged a bag that was too big and heavy
wedged between the baker
and the second-hand bookstall
there’s an old wooden table
where a woman sits
in front of the tarot reader
i feel an ache, you know the one
that shows up on saturday
mornings when it should be
staying home
i haven’t washed my hair in four days
the woman has shiny auburn hair
the tarot reader talks in mysterious
tones, the woman is listening
i notice that her mouth is open
and her tongue peeks out
i want to be that woman
i want to wear her chiffon dress
her perfect curls
i want to have the yellow tea cups she
keeps on a shelf in her kitchen
her green enameled walls
the moons at the base
of her nails
i want to pay someone ten dollars
so they can gaze into my eyes and
say that love is a shiny silvery thing
it's lunar, baby
and sure as it withered,
it will be whole again
i want to pick cards and smile because
i've always known what they would be
i've seen them in my dreams before-
a clown, a juggler, one-legged dancer
in a gold frock
~Seema Chopra~
**********************************************************
death of a mad dog
I've just now found out
that Morgan is dead and
they say the blue mongrels
cut off his head.
It has always been true and
it always will be
that it is the wild outlaws
who most love
life and liberty.
So we'll sing our songs softly
play our music low.
We don't want the robed man
to know.
Or to hear.
That we only pray
to the three gods
of sex, gold and beer.
We'll save the wild singing
until we find a pub.
Lamentations are useless
out here in the scrub.
~John Holland~
*****************
Poetry Sans Frontieres is delighted to post some poems by Adam Henry Carriere.
Adam is a publisher, editor, poet and novelist based in the US.
Please also scroll down further to read poems by Leanne Hanson and Mercedes Webb-Pullman.
The Idle Gossip at a Danzig Tram Stop
It was said, stepping through the wreckage
of last night’s air-raid, that Mr. Meyer
wasn’t taking phone calls this morning.
The widows waiting for their rations
rued that all the troubadours
had been re-assigned to the Eastern Front.
The carefully-catalogued smoke in the distance
wondered if Eros hadn’t been lost somehow,
just shy of the Baltic coast.
The returning amputees, discreetly encamped
outside distant villages, laughed with the Devil
while bells, of what churches still stood, rang.
Siegfried, however, was still appointed Reichsprotektor
of all Rome, even though everyone was terrified
to tell the Fuhrer he was actually only a character.
~Adam Henry Carriere~
********************
Candles
My cake, expatriated, feared
being eaten far from home,
made of ingredients
Christian bakers wouldn't allow;
my party, exiled, loathed golden silence
where Viennese waltz, be-bop, and
cymbalom don't cotton to karaoke;
and my candles, exhumed one at a time,
heaved to be blown out by desert air.
~Adam Henry Carriere~
*****************
Memory of the Abolition of Past
It took a long time for the rain
to finally take on a scent
past diesel and cinder and grey
to steps unwashed
by distinguished feet -
running roughshod
over homemade bread and cabbage,
leaving marks on all the pictures
of spent Christmases together
in twinkling barbed wire
and nativity scenes set up
in a menorah of minefields.
Here, the ashtrays are filled
with ground coffee
and the smoke outside
is ignored because, like
the alkaline curtain inside
such clouds, the movement
is away toward other bluewater
unmentioned in the alphabet.
Now that there's a smell
the bonsai trees remember
pictures of flowers, in gardens
come in closed eyes
watching the Old World
grow gilt, silken lilies.
~Adam Henry Carriere~
***************
Telling Myself New Stories about My Past
But it seemed to her as if she had to wait for something
special. All of her senses were awake as never before, and
a few unknown, new senses had awoken to support the
old ones. She saw, heard, and felt a thousand times more
intensely than was usual. And absolutely nothing
happened. ~Joseph Roth
Something in the pepper and garlic haze
has wiped the broken mirror
cut of Slavic glass
clean, pure as minerals
thrown into the late winter
one oboe-ish ember at a time
by child-like lovers who,
defying age-old fear,
spoke in clear seductions
to someone at last ready
to take an uneasy breath.
~Adam Henry Carriere~
******************
Venerations of Land
When you grow up in a walled garden,
where private Easter baskets
and dandelion Valentine's are yours
on any grammar school day,
your fly-by-night recall
by design
forgets trench mud and acrid leaves
burning like Lebanon's cedars
every autumn.
Adults are lucky if they can walk
to and from stucco front doors
without being snared by water-
starved roses.
Meanwhile, other lost teenage years
hides in kerosine-warmed cobblepots,
where the only earth is overcast
and winter’s howl invades the April bloom,
of nickel-ash mountains and purple birds.
~Adam Henry Carriere~
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Poetry Sans Frontieres is delighted to feature some of the poems of Leanne Hanson.
Leanne is a writer from the Gold Coast in Queensland and the author of Ghost Dreaming.
Seeds
Persimmon
has no reason or rhyme
well, not at this time
it’s just a word
I wanted to use
I’ve no excuse
what’s real has blurred
the word has slurred
to pershmn
Persimmon, puce and poppycock
sit like shags on a wobbly rock
each with a pudding in a cotton sock
and a key to the bishop’s car
Make sense of this
you worthless piece
of over-opiated verse
I know the rules
I have the tools
you have your alligator purse
and rhyming dick
shunary, sick
ophantic to the dead
and rotting gods
of odds and sods
where none have trod
for fear of losing
half aqn empty head
You wander through
and wonder who
gave me the right
to write of right
and rhyme with right
not twice, but thrice
then not at all
I have a few new
words for you
anachronistic
quite simplistic
trivial and slightly cystic
such a sad and sorry state
when torrents of both love and hate
are trickled into metaphors
much used by Shakespeare and the Doors
who burned and raged in equal parts
though Shakespeare smoked a little less
and had less fun – but I digress
Light up
lighten up
sip your sins
from Satan’s cup
seven sins are counted
seven horses mounted
minus the three
that wait near the tree
of knowledge forgotten
the tree that is laden
with persimmon
~Leanne Hanson~
***********************
Uluru
Rainbow
serpent sleeping,
dreams the land in golden
hues, bleeding in fires of scarlet.
Sacred rock, your people call you brother,
whose ancient heart will slumber on
into the gentle dawn
of another
rainbow
~Leanne Hanson~
*****************
The Cartesian Plan
Mathematical Mick was planning a trip
To Belfast to visit his kin
So he and his horse, they plotted a course
At dawn the next day they’d begin
They packed up their bags and to bed went the nag
But Mick spent a night on the sauce
They set out at dawn; it was after mid-morn
Ere he saw they were miles off course.
“Can’t you read X and Y?” asked Mick with a sigh
Said the nag: “When plotting your course,
Though your thinking was good, you shouldn’t have put
Descartes before the horse.”
~Leanne Hanson~
**************************
De-Terminator
My granddad is a cyborg
They took away his heart
And put a metal thingy in
To make the pumping start
Now granddad chases buses
Because he cannot drive
He’s got some gizmo gadgetry
That’s keeping him alive
He eats twelve pills for breakfast
And eight for morning tea
They rattle past the whatsit that
Replaced his artery
My granddad is a cyborg
A T1000 kind
Except he isn’t bulletproof
But granddad doesn’t mind
I told granddad to test out
All his new machinery
So he found a lady cyborg
And they’re living in Fiji
I get a blissful postcard
From my granddad now and then
So I’m guessing that his ticker
Has its rhythm back again
~Leanne Hanson~
***************************
Must Have Missed The Ark
I’ve never seen a platypus
In Noah’s mighty boat
I didn’t see him try to put
Two wallabies afloat
He had no grey koalas
Climbing up his cabin wall
There’s no sign of goannas
Or echidnas there at all
Someone must have saved them
Or they wouldn’t still be here
God must have had a backup plan
For southern hemisphere
It occurs that for this job
That Noah couldn’t do
God must have picked a Koori
In a bloody big canoe
~Leanne Hanson~
**************************
Breakout
The carvery lunch at Grandad’s RSL
is all we can afford these days, a treat
for battlers. There’s a smell of yesterday
piped across the floor, where vets hum foreign songs
and drink about the war.
But the carpark today has a busload of
photo-collectors, clicking their Nikons and
smiling inscrutably. And he coughs and checks,
the old man, balks and walks away.
Don’t go in there, son, won’t go in there
Ripped out my nails and burned off my hair,
son Don’t go in there, I won’t go in there
So off to the caf for a java and a posh bit to eat
while his demons devour five dollar pork
at the opposite end of the street
and his yesterday-smell is further away
than tomorrow’s insistence on leaving behind
the crippled, the starving, the burned and the blind
the edges torn out of the mind
But the garden that Nakajima created is quiet
in contrast, each November when tireless hutters
and lenses are stowed beneath the hush. Sakura Matsuri
still echoes, though the best blossoms have long since blown
away. I don’t ask if there are cherries on Kokoda,
or lining that damned railway. Why rake the sand
with the nails of dead soldiers?
It is a haiku landscape that sparks the dreaming. This
silent bonsai is not its father elm. What seems strange
is simple through another eye, and I
can only ask.
Grandad lived and died in yesterday. He is headstone
heavy on hard won ground, but I found a pebble
that sang the songs of mountains.
~Leanne Hanson~
***************
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