Friday -One Stop Poetry Featuring Fall Poetry Finalists

One Stop Poetry Features Finalists from the Fall Competition "Through a Child's Eye's"

Emmanuel Ibok:

I am Emmanuel Ibok aka Lord Emmanuel and I'm from southern Nigeria. I am presently in Malaysia where I'm doing my final year in Business and Management. I was born and raised in Port Harcourt, one of the oil rich states in Nigeria although I am originally from Akwa-Ibom state. I began writing as  kid and remember trying to get a book published even before I clocked 13 but I guess I wasn't ready then. I am a jovial person and never like dull moments. I started blogging in December 2009 as a means of sharing my poetry. My poetry springs mostly from imagination but I try to make it applicable to real life situations.  I write because I see myself as a teacher and messenger and besides what is knowledge and wisdom if it is not being shared? I write to share wisdom and knowledge. I always find it funny when people read my works and relate it first hand to me; it pleases me although sometimes it could get a little overboard. I like to meet people and learn new things as well as I'm a big scholar of philosophy and psychology. My travel exposure so far has made me see the world from a global perspective and given me the conclusion that humanity is the key to world peace. I kind of have a mysterious trait and I am a deep thinker as well....It goes on and on

Through a Child's Eye

Daddy please don’t hit Mum again,

I know she’s stubbornly insane

but those bruises you leave on her temple,

makes you look stupid in the eyes of people;

like, if you couldn't stay together,

why did you put a ring on her finger.

Mummy please be submissive to Dad,

I know he’s a tough nut to crack,

but each time you cause a fight,

the neighbours have something to gossip about;

like, if you couldn’t tolerate him,

why did you accept his ring.

Mum and Dad please stop fighting,

I know you’re human and not perfect,

but each time you curse and fight,

my siblings sit and wonder;

like, if marriage was this bitter,

why then did you go into it in the first place.

Helena Malheur:

I am first generation Ethiopian-American born in NYC, now living in Florida.  My mother was very much into the theatre and arts, therefore I was exposed to culture at a very young age.  I was given a mystery book for one of my birthdays - I still remember how much I loved it.  I started to read and write quite a lot afterward; I think I used to read a book a week! When I was in middle school, I wrote my first play called “The thief;” it was not a hit at school but that did not deter me from wanting to write more plays, short stories and poetry throughout my teenage years. I kept a diary by my bedside at all times and wrote in it the day’s happenings and feelings till it became a kind of ritual. But, I had neglected my writing pursuing a college degree and work until about seven years ago when I started to write again. Now I write more poetry and prose rather than short stories.
I think that writing can capture a moment and make it new again each time it’s read and I have found it to be a cathartic tool in times of hardship or emotional distress; I continue to write for those reasons. I started a blog for my poetry a few months ago under the pen name Helena Malheur. My poetry stems from reality most of the time; I tend to write about things that have affected me in some way. My favorite writers are Sylvia Plath, E. E. Cummings, W. H. Auden, Pablo Neruda, and Edgar Allan Poe.
I am thankful to have found One Stop Poetry and the group of talented writers with whom I can share ideas. It has been a fantastic experience to meet all of you.

Imagination

in a back yard

as vast as Africa,

fields of red earth bubble

in jeweled dimples

of happy toes;

the putter of little feet,

chase the echo of giggles,

past footprints

of purple elephants

plucked out of dreams.

wide eyes float

above sun kissed cheeks,

beyond the desert sky,

through rainforests

of the Amazon.

tiny hands clasp

knots of imagination,

climbing higher

than birds nesting

golden eggs,

atop a giant tree

sprinkled with magic,

where branches bow

to an emerald throne, and

a crown of butterflies.

One Stop Poetry Featured Poet: Shewriting

Welcome to Dustus Friday on
One Stop Poetry!

Today my guest is shewriting (aka Sheila Moore). Her poetic intentions and reasons why she began writing prompt me to reconsider the powerful creative outlet of poetry. Sheila's posts on the She's Writing Blog and for One Shot Wednesday, in addition to being lyrically emotive, are clear in tone and presentation. Through varied line structuring, and effective use of imagery, shewriting composes lines to which many readers relate.

A Poet's Journey...
"I started writing when I was ten years old as a way to express and process my feelings. Writing was the only healthy emotional outlet I had for a long time and it continues to be one of several that I have now....

"At age eleven, I attempted to write my first book. I had just returned home from a week-long Girl Scout camping trip where I met several girls who were dealing with serious life issues such as addiction and eating disorders. I felt compelled to write, to make sense of the confusion and sadness I felt for these girls. However, I became discouraged as I quickly realized that I did not have the perseverance required to write a book. At this point, I believe that my poetic muse was born."

Shewriting's Motivation to Express Emotions....
"As a writer, I feel successful when three God-given assets are present during my creative process. These assets are inspiration, passion, and skill. For me, success is not solely dependent on positively touching another person’s soul, although when this happens I consider it a precious bonus. My best inspiration usually comes from life experiences that elicit intense emotional responses. My passion for the written word stems from a need to express difficult emotions such as anger and fear in a way that makes them less foreboding and to record pleasant emotions such as joy and love in a way that makes them everlasting."

"As a musician uses notes to compose symphonic masterpieces or a painter uses colors to create breath-taking portraits, a successful writer uses words to construct poetic oeuvres." —shewriting

And now 3 selected poems from shewriting...

she writes LOVE on her arm

she wants to live a long lovely Life
but demons whisper under their breath
daunting words abuse her sanity
and evoke menacing thoughts of death

she wants to be open to other Options
than those which hopeless perspectives create
for in making the ultimate sacrifice
all truth and goodness are lost to self-hate

she wants to unveil a vast Void
that people, places, nor things can fill
her ego claims it can save her
while her spirit cries out for God’s will

she wants to expose ego’s Exploits
all its fallacies and empty lies
for some who come to believe in them
fall victim to unjust suicides

****************

"For me, skill is the most challenging part of writing. I equate it with putting together pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Inexperience or even impatience in some cases can cause me to force together pieces that somewhat but not perfectly connect. In the end, all of those pieces that only partially fit together cause the puzzle’s picture to appear incomplete, distorted, or unrecognizable."

**********

Hold My Hand

A warm summer breeze blew strands of auburn hair across her soft, youthful face.
He held her hand and offered the ring. She answered with a fierce embrace but thought…

Will you hold my hand when dark clouds move in and a storm brews up above;
When the anger in our acts and words overshadow our sweet love?

Will you hold my hand when lightening strikes and tears fall down like rain;
When lovers’ quarrels burn like fire and affection flows down the drain?

Will you hold my hand when dense fog sets in and we are blind to the other’s care;
When bills pile up and time slips away and the kids are all that we share?

Will you hold my hand when strong winds whirl and a tornado touches down;
When good health is in peril, jobs are lost, and devastation is all around?

Will you hold my hand when hot days turn cold and sickness ferments our pride;
When fear freezes time and for us to survive, our love can no longer hide?


Fifty years later, a warm summer breeze blows strands of silver hair across her elderly face. He holds her hand and offers a ring. She responds with a tender embrace and listens…

We have weathered life’s storms, the squabbles, the bills,
The jobs, the kids, and all of the ills.

My lover, my mate, and my best friend,
I hope you knew I would always…

hold your hand.

****************

Willingness is the Key

  Where is the key
I cried earnestly
I need the key
to be happy

Look under the bed
someone said
behind the bed
or out in the shed

I dropped to my knees
begging God, please
I’m on my knees
full of dry heaves

I fell to the floor
they called me a whore
I laid on the floor
‘til they walked out the door

I stood up in the room
mesmerized by the groom
we danced in the room
and ingested the ‘shrooms

I sat in the chair
and tried not to share
the cards dealt to my chair
a royal flush, no a pair

I pulled up to the table
and ate ‘til unable
to stand up from the table
I belonged in a stable

The key, the key
I want to be happy
I need the key
please give it to me

The key that unlocks
where happiness docks
the lock of all locks
that humanity mocks

Wasn’t found hiding
under my bed biding
no action, just hiding
from life’s daily tiding

It was not in the shed
with the car, shiny red
nor in the weight that I shed
or in the people I wed

I did not find it in ale
nor in any male
drugs caused me to ail
gambling, too, did fail

There wasn’t enough
food I could stuff
nor was money enough
why was it so tough

To bring happiness here
in what’s not seen in a mirror
right here, right here
where there’s pride and there’s fear

Only after the fall
as I do recall
first I had to fall
to know at all

About the key
I could never see
because the key
you see
was inside of me

"A skillful writer knows not only how to find the right pieces or words to use but also knows how to fit those words together in a way that creates the clearest, most meaningful portrayal of his or her message. I think that skill development comes from practice, studying others’ writing styles, formal training, more practice, constructive feedback from others, good mentoring, and more practice. God willing, writing will be a life-long endeavor for me, which brings to my spirit much excitement and gratitude. "—shewriting 

 ****************

*Photo of girl with Love on wrist by Cat

Check out She's Writing Blog @ http://shewriting.blogspot.com
Follow shewriting on Twitter http://twitter.com/Shewriting

Comments & feedback are always appreciated!

Cheers,
adam dustus

One Stop Spotlight - Anton Gourman

Visiting Anton on Forpuck and reading his poems feels a bit like meeting him in a café; you sit down, have a cappuccino and he would just start to talk about his taxi ride from the airport or his latest flight - very naturally, honest and straight-forward - and as you listen, you'd start to see all the tiny details, impressions and deep emotions, he weaves into his stories. By the time you finished your drink, you think you may know him a bit better and may detect some footprints his poetry has left on your soul.

Curious? Then grab a cup of coffee and get ready to meet him...you by the way can talk to him in English, Russian, Swedish and French.
~ Claudia  



sweden, october 2010

I ride on studded tyres to get to you
This land forgets forgiveness in August
Undress
Shed
Take of all you wear, country
We’ll meet when you are naked
and I comfortable

I ride on studded tyres just as
we once
drove north
through snow
towards tomorrow,
a case of gangsta rap in the Mitsubishi

Each passed day shears
Another thimble off my memories
And so I’ve fled the cruelty
of sunrise at ten
and sunset at four
for longer days

For longer days.


© 2010 by Anton Gourman


I was born in Moscow in 79 and moved to Stockholm when I was six. Raised in the suburbs, I moved to London in 2006, after a brief stint in Brussels. My first foray into poetry was in 2001, and it took me about eight months to run out of bitterness and inspiration. It was one of those hurt-love affairs and was, in hindsight, a bit soppy.

I came back to poetry in the summer of 2010. I would like to claim that it was always just a matter of time, but that would be a lie, so instead I'll say this: it was only a matter of time. I also photograph and have drawn, periodically.

I'm inspired by cities and by people, by lust and passion, melancholy, pain, depression. I tend to write quickly and edit only a little bit. The blog has allowed me to get in touch with some people who have been very helpful, for which I am grateful. I must admit to not knowing anything about poetry, and the only poets I find easy to read are Cohen and Bukowski, although Yeats, Lowell, Borges, Thomas and others can be found on my shelf. Mostly, my inspiration is drawn from prose fiction and a lot of cold-war sci-fi.

Puck is one of my three sisters. She says she reads my blog, although i don't always believe her.

One Stop Poetry Spotlight: Signed...bkm (bkmackenzie)

Welcome to Dustus Friday on One Stop Poetry!

Considering her excellent blog, Signed...bkm, poet bkmackenzie continues to impress me with her skillful posts. In addition to earning a runner-up honor in our tightly contested "Autumn" poetry competition with her entry When I Dream in Autumn, ...bkm's offerings for One Shot Wednesday display both creativity and detailed attention to craft. Reading her work, I always get the sense that she maintains a scholarly respect and dedication for poetry itself.

About ...bkm:
Originally from the Midwest, Bkmackenzie now resides in Northern California with her husband.  She fell in love with the concept of writing and handwriting at the age of five—after the first day of entering parochial school.  There on her desk was a blank notebook and a stack of pencils neat and clean. From that point forward, she became addicted to both of them, as well as fountain pens.

Having been introduced to poetry at an early age, one gets the sense that bkm developed into a talented writer who maintains great respect for learning about the poets who came before us:

"As with most it was nursery rhymes and limericks that served as my introduction to poetry, which I could not get enough of.  Later I fell in love with the poetry of Robert Frost, Poe, and the sonnets of Elizabeth Barrett Browning. I started writing when I was about twelve and have written off and on during different times in my life keeping all the pieces and scraps together throughout the years.  And though I have never pursued the field professionally, I always in the back of my mind knew writing was my first love—words and what they represented. Words to me are symbols no different than the jewelry or color we uniquely choose to wear; the writer wears their words, they become a part of their identity in the same way a work of art becomes the symbolic image of that artist." —bkmackenzie

Here are some selected poems written by bkm...

In Writing

in writing I cast my heart
very much alone
       in a void
       in a crevasse
in a labyrinth with a quill

castles all around me,
      left naked,
without the two buck toll
to pay the greedy gatekeeper
at the entrance to my soul

up going Jacobs ladder
     to scale the Kingdom’s wall
     I read a message in the mortar
of a prior writers fall -

taking focus on the moment
I glanced from where I came
      I saw Jesus in the junk-yard
      Buddha without shame –
corruption in the structure
only magnified the pain – what gain?

ascending upward
to the underground – what left unfound?
     but a virgin in a breadbox
     recording a world
     with no sound –

she motioned – enter
the apparition fell away
leaving a mirror and a mantra
only without prayer

and a writer rapt in parchment
         ink just laughing everywhere...

****************

Long Sought

 
do not love me like another or one with feathered hat you bought
love me like the lover your heart has for so long sought

take me to the morning, the one the dawn has yet to kiss,
take me there, there where long since lovers in forever reminisce
held between the moon and midnight, between the stars and eternity
holding my name as your next breathe - is held in sweetest ecstasy...

do not love me like another or one with feathered hat you bought
love me like the lover your heart has for so long sought

give me but the moments that write volumes without end
suspend the ever after knowing full well it shall not come again
let me read within your eyes the words your silent lips dare not address
and press them to the pages that my life will inscribe as - its happiness

no, do not love me like another or one with feathered hat you bought
love me like the lover your heart has for so long now - sought....

****************

"It has not been until about the last ten years that I have spent the time to work at and develop a style that I find speaks true to now I see the world.  I have realized that my poetry more often than not is of a romantic or surreal nature, though I work at diversifying the form which is rarely structured.  Also, I tend to avoid dark or depressive poetry and find it difficult to celebrate writers who solely write in this form.  I can appreciate their writing but not the living and or dying in a self- destructive way.  I wrote a poem recently titled I Will not Celebrate You in Death right after reading a bio on Sylvia Plath and a subsequent discussion of suicide and depression among young people; the poem speaks for itself on the subject. " —...bkm

****************
I Will not Celebrate You in Death

I will not celebrate you in death
so - should you go there you are on your own
I came to like you here after
your birth - not scorning the soul you came with, equipped to fight
fires much greater than the spark I could
provide you -

I loved you as a human - half god, half
demon that crawled my leg and bit my
heart - I love you still as a friend, a fellow
worshiper of medieval wisdom - and as I

nursed you towards the climbing tree
(that now lays on its side), I celebrate you
watching the fallen - still with leaf
and life - clinging to beauty and breathing
in its own sorrow - no self- pity or denial

my hands fractured in service to
aid you any further - and loving you yet is easy,
never painful, even as I watch your own - I celebrate
the breath you embrace --but I will not celebrate
you in death ---

No, I do not believe in it....

 ****************

“ I believe that writers do not actually write for the reader, but to fulfill the self.  It being an agreement made between writer and muse. If the writer is fortunate and the piece comes quickly and without pain than they are almost certain that the self will be fulfilled and usually the reader quickly justifies that initial feeling.  I know for myself that if the write is long and labored then I am never really pleased with the piece or find it worthy of revisiting. Personally I feel that my most fulfilling and best writing is when the words come even before the images,  that is when I know it is truly my muse at work. She knows exactly what she wants to say and needs little help from my imagination.  When she is so kind to show up in this way I find I end the piece by saying thank you, yes.. Thank You for never failing to surprise me with words. ” —bkmackenzie

Check out more of ...bkm's poetry @ http://signedbkm.blogspot.com/
Comments & feedback are always appreciated!

Cheers,
Adam

Welcome to Moondustwriter Thursday - Featuring Gay Cannon

I met Gay Cannon on Twitter where I have met many incredible writers who have become friends. I liken Twitter to a pub where someone walks in for the first time and doesn't know a soul; a person casually asks "what do you do?" - the next thing you know many of the people at the pub are talking about what they do, who they know, and suggest maybe "so and so" can help with the book or poetry site.

When I met Gay,we just eased into a conversation. She's like that. I never realized  how much we have in common. We obviously both share a love for the written word. She and I both went to University to study the Sciences. After two years, Gay was so in love with writing and literature that she became a Liberal Arts Major.Since then she has taught a class on just about everything.

Gay is quite the story teller. She has written a time travel novel; sadly it coincided with her husband's death. It seems that the novel is stuck on an old inaccessible disk (bet I could find someone on Twitter to help her with that disk.) Gay's husband was a talented man; one of his many accomplishments was being on the team at NASA that made the moon shots possible. Yes - I could go on about this multi-faceted woman.

What inspires Gay to write poetry?: The two subjects that carry her away into the poetry realm are nature and weather; her beloved Texas puts prose at the end of her pen. Gay has a way of making words do what she wants - a poetic magician of sorts. She has published much of her poetry in magazines over the years and hopes to compile all of her poetry into a book. 

I hope you enjoy Gay's poetry as much as I do.  

ENDANGERED

Gliding

Seagulls

Cry

In response to each wave’s spray

Salt

Sea

Tears

For the whooping cranes

That fly from Aransas Pass.

New

Hazy

Night

Why must they leave?

The rhythmic water

Slaps the white sand,

Brown and green reeds

Join all nature to play this symphony.

Can it not preserve the ballet,

These shadowed cranes against

A bone-white porcelain moon?

SYLVANIA

There’s no one as old as we are, sir, or as young.

We ride horses in the forest and their manes stretch away

from us becoming like the trunks of trees.

My husband died and left me feeling not as old

as my grandchild’s birth.

I grab the mane and ride toward youth.

You had no markers in that wasteland to measure out your age.

I think you’re young, as young as when we mounted, sir,

but when I glimpse you now your face folds in against the bone

like knees upon the Cypress trees and still we ride

to a place we know where flowers once would open to the sun

and need no shade.

Then your pace was quicker, sir, and

your face a flower paled by moon.

We seek beginnings in autumn and ride

wild and unbridled now over burnished leaves.

We reach for life and find its span,

aging as the trees we’ve known.

NOCTURNE

I cannot find you in the summer’s leaves,

Or hear your music in the moontime’s song,

The shadow shapes become the faceless breeze.

Across a cubist’s landscape of elm trees,

On midnight’s wave, I hear the steeple’s gong,

I cannot find you in the summer’s leaves.

When emerald stars through satin dreams, increase

Their spell and thus my fantasy prolong,

The shadow shapes become the faceless breeze.

Of velvet indigos, the night then weaves

Its magic carpet that bears me along,

I cannot find you in the summer’s leaves.

In caravels I sail Aegean Seas

And touch the columns that I dance among,

The shadow shapes become the faceless breeze.

At last within my grasp No, it deceives

Me, and I reach to find the vision gone.

I cannot see you in the summer’s leaves,

The shadow shapes become the faceless breeze.

You can read more of Gay's fantastic work here

Tweet Gay when you get a chance @beachanny
Thanks so much Gay for sharing your beautiful poetry.

© Gay Reiser Cannon. All Rights Reserved
Photos courtesy of Flickr:
Dark Seascape: http://www.flickr.com/photos/wonderlane/3103381523/
Wild horses: http://www.flickr.com/photos/bouldair/4963835069/