Saturday, January 14, 2017

Daphne Sola: Two Poems


Who wins a war is always a moot point
or perhaps an oxymoron,
since no-one really wins a war,
each side leaves the field
either by braggadocio
or humiliation.

We are meant to admire generals
who deal with death and destruction,
victory and loss
and when they return
they display battle scars and medals
but carefully wrap themselves
in the flag
to conceal the deflation
of the massive erections that
helped them lead armies
and sustain a virile stance.

In civilian life, people are all things,
happy or depressed
ambitious or oppressed
health-nuts or obsessed
with their allergies,
and now we are asked to admire
those who own large amounts of money
and entrust our future
to their expertise.

I have even heard that a very rich man,
no, a very very very rich man
is giving some of his wealth
so that all disease will be eliminated
from human life.
He must think we will live decades longer
and does not envision
that eventually
we would die of boredom,

This reminds me that recently,
touched by a sickness,
I looked out a hospital window
and saw an asphalt tarmac
clearly marked with a large yellow ‘H’
and I thought it meant,
‘This is a Hospital! Do not bomb!’
and was later told that the’H’
stood for Helicopter,
an emergency landing site

So in one small mind
as well as in the vast terrain of the Middle East
once again,
mercy succumbed to mayhem.



If I bury my head in a pile of leaves
some of them catch
in a tangle of hair

leaves crackling
hair so soft.

When I drag my feet through a muddy puddle
black footprints follow
with me unaware

leaves rustle
hair swung aloft.

Then the sky does a trick and turns upside-down
unruly hair
sweeps out and around.

leaves scatter
and cover the ground

I send out squeals that make the air ring
I stick out my legs. . .

A child on a swing.

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Daphne Sola is an artist, poet, and former art gallery owner. She lives in upstate New York. 

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Tuesday, December 13, 2016

Three Poems by Martins Tomisin


Roused in the heart of night
I sit and stare
Boiling in the rhythm of thought
On this road,
Life lost,
Life saved,
Beauty flies by and by
Pain flies by and by
Hope dashed against stones
Story meshed upon stories

They pop up like a RAVEN
That fed Elijah meat and bread.
Feeding the myriad of people with wad

Under the gaze of sun,
The throngs aligned on a longish axis
As if money is doled out
To assuage the flared-up sac
There, mopping their perspiring brows
Some pressed in bladder,
Some pressed in the sac
To give ears to the callings
Of the hawkers spicy, relished rice

When the day piggyback its tasty honey,
They fed fat till they ran out of money
The world is there at their feet
Yet, they are sit-tight patriot.
Skinny beggars of dough
Lackey to their school-pundit, Judas Iscariot

Those who paced them,
On the golden throne-seat
Are now confined to a wheelchair
Waiting, on and on
Dancing SHOKI
Painting the street light for gyration

The crabby cries
"Where are the beautiful ones?
Are they yet to be fructified?
Are they still nipping at their
Mother’s nourishing coconut buttermilk?
Or probably still contemplating
On their caravan to the world?"

Oh yes!
The beautiful ones are here
Who play sweet smart in politics?
Who put on the diamond-morning,
Silver sun-smile?
Who paint the sky green and white
Like the Nigeria’s flag?
Who do not give arms to the rustling wind?
He is,
Who surrender to the fear of his Maker

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Paddle! Paddle!! Paddle!!!
Paddle your pirogue down the valley
Even when your moment seems heavy
Spring to life in tasteless tingling time
Only the gritty nibbles with the rhythm
Of time.

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The hurly – burly wind
That passed by yesterday
Is down the drain
In nothing flat,
A new stripe of book will flicker
Like a virginal carbon-paper
Awaiting to be stricken
In spiffy smirch of streak

The moment lapsed
And the night is at its lull
Copping some z’s
When drapery is drawn over the sun
As if to shoot the next seen of film
Is like snatching dreamer’s dainty dream
Grim reaper can pop up to snatch your consciousness
Or pop up when you are of grey age

No one knows
When it will wheel by
When it will take hold of you
When it will thwack
At the door of your ticker

Grim reaper is that film shot
With characters unidentified
Location not really allocated
Grim reaper is that second coming of Messiah:
Demise is the emblem of life.

To them
That cannot say yes
To the cat-o-nine-tails of life;
The best of repose has punched the clock
Sweetest of rest it is.

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Martins Tomisin Olusola was born on July 12th 1995, to the Martins Family in Lagos State, Nigeria. He is currently a student at Olabisi Onabanjo University, where he is studying English. He has won an award in 'Literary Competition' for the best poetry writer In Olabisi Onabanjo University.

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Thursday, November 10, 2016

November 9, 2016; a Poem by Mike Foldes

November 9, 2016

This morning a new team
Took over management
Of the known universe –
And so their arrows flew.

Last night a boy woke up
In the middle of the night
Screaming: A dead goose
Had fallen from his sky.

Intangible limps along.
When Tangible reigns.
But can Tangible
Be preserved forever?

The sun rose in the East
Today, it’s hydrogen light
Glowing red in the belly
Of opaque clouds.

A familiar aesthetic, invisible
Now to dream eyes blinking.
And the child asks her teacher,
“If not here, then where?”

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Mike Foldes is the founder and managing editor of Ragazine, an online literary magazine. He is also the author of "Sleeping Dogs, A true story of the Lindbergh baby kidnapping," and "Sandy: Chronicles of a Superstorm," with artist Christine Devereaux." 
Download at www.Smashwords.Com and www.Amazon.Com


Join Mike on MySpace & Facebook

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Tuesday, October 25, 2016

Blue Sky; a poem by Stephen Poleskie

Blue Sky

The blue sky is not a ceiling

that we can write upon with white chalk

but only a blue or gray or golden moment,

which records our passage through time.

These rare moments of closing

when things, like people,

come together only briefly,

fearful for those fleeting seconds

when they need one another.

The blue sky is not a ceiling.

The blue sky surrounds us always.

The blue sky reaches to the ground.

Passing but not touching

Meeting but not greeting

Looking but not seeing

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Blue Sky was written in 1989 and was published as a hand printed book, with six of Poleskie's linocuts, in an edition of fifty by the College of Art and Design, Loughborough, UK, when he was artist-in-residence there. A copy of this book is in the rare book collection of the Museum of Modern Art in New York.

This poem has recently been published in, From the Finger Lakes, a Poetry Anthology, edited by Peter Fortunato and John Hopper. The book can be ordered here: 

Stephen Poleskie’s writing, fiction, non-fiction and poetry has appeared in numerous journals in the USA and in Australia, Czech Republic, Germany, India, Italy, Mexico, the Philippines, and the UK; as well as in five anthologies, and been three times nominated for a Pushcart Prize.  He has published five novels and two books of short fiction. Poleskie has taught at The School of Visual Arts, NYC, the University of California/Berkeley, and Cornell University, and been a resident at the American Academy in Rome. He writes a regular column for Poleskie lives in Ithaca, NY. website:

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Wednesday, September 28, 2016

My Five-Five-Fingers: a poem by Martins Tomisin


My five-five-fingers of my hands
Zestfully lived In serenity.
The three thrill fingers of my right hand:
Thumb, index finger and middle finger
Stoutly lived civilly and gleefully
Amongst her BROTHERS:
They rested gleefully upon the placid,

Perched in the midst of the three thrill
And laid rest upon the hungry,
Virgin DUSKY-SHEET, which sprawled
Bear flat on the glossy desk.
The glossy desk accompanying the earth
The earth accompanying its depth.

The other two fingers of my right hand:
Ring finger and little finger
Calmly leisure, plopped on the hungry, Virgin dusky-sheet
And lent ears to the Sharp-sable-pointed
Muttering vignettes of yesterday
Muttering vignettes of today
Muttering vegnettes of tomorrow.
Upon the glossy desk
My five fingers of my left hand too
Laid rest, and eyeballed the sharp-sable -pointed-dart, muttering deep

All you who waded through lines:
All you who unearth the heart
Of this Earth, hunting for treasures
Pore over my ten fingers.
My ten fingers,
As pure as a full virgin moon.
I have dunked deep my five fingers
Of my right hand with my progenitors
In a bowl of sweet dishes
And nibbled singed YAMS amidst
The thriving vegetables.

But my forefinger of my left hand
Never been raised above
To curse the heavens
Never been raised up to pinpoint
My progenitors' homeland
Never had it tasted any depravity
And never will it be licked
Or bit by the savage butchers of Meat
Who loved to fatten themselves on murder
And gratified their heart with
Juicy cup of blood and gore.

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Martins Tomisin Olusola was born on July 12th 1995, to the Martins Family in Lagos State. Nigeria. He is currently a student at Olabisi Onabanjo University, where he is studying English. He has won an award in 'Literary Completion' for the best poetry writer In Olabisi Onabanjo University.

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Sunday, September 25, 2016

The Wild Ones: Creatures of the Catskills

Hanford Mills Museum features "The Wild Ones: Creatures of the Catskills" Exhibit by Treadwell Artist Bertha Rogers 
Treadwell Artist & Poet Bertha Rogers
Hanford Mills Museum will open a new exhibit with by Treadwell artist Bertha Rogers on Saturday, September 24. "The Wild Ones: Creatures of the Catskills," will remain open through Saturday, October 15."The Wild Ones," an interdisciplinary installation with painted and drawn portraits of wild creatures as well as artist books, photographs, poems about the wild creatures who live in Delaware County and the Catskills, and an interactive video that incorporates images, sounds of wild animals, and readings of her poetry by Rogers. Hanford Mills Museum is located at 51 Co. Hwy 12, East Meredith, NY 13757.
     It is the second exhibit in Rogers's Natural Catskills series; the first was "Planting Wildness," which was exhibited in 2014. The aim of the exhibit is to familiarize the people of the county and surrounding region with the creatures who also inhabit this beautiful region of New York, including the many creatures who returned after forests were planted to replace those removed when the region was cleared and settled. Among those creatures, most of whom are rarely seen by humans, are bobcats, mountain lions, bears, fishers, foxes, and even the occasional moos
"Blue Beak" by Bertha Rogers
e. The reading and workshop will encourage community members to write about and illustrate their experiences with these animals.
      Bertha Rogers, artist/poet/teaching artist, has received numerous grants for her interdisciplinary installations in and about Delaware County and the Catskills, including the farm series, the Beowulf exhibit and video; the Anglo-Saxon Riddle-Poem series (which included artifacts from Hanford Mills & DCHA and which is currently being shown at the Dan Welden Gallery, Inspiration Plus in Sag Harbor, NY); the Even the Hemlock series; and others. In addition, her work is in the permanent collection of the Harry Ransom Center at the University of Texas at Austin and other locations. She has received grants from the Ludwig Vogelstein Foundation and the A. E. Ventures Foundation as well as the MacDowell Colony, the Millay Colony for the Arts, Saltonstall, Pocantico Hills, Jentel, Caldera, and Hawthornden International Writers Retreat in Scotland. She is the Poet Laureate of Delaware County.
      Jack Schluep, who produced the video with Rogers, has worked on numerous projects with Joseph Stillman, Paloma Productions, Oneonta, NY; Drew Harty, Treadwell, NY; and many others, traveling throughout the US and abroad, to record and film poets, scientists, and others in the arts. He has also collaborated with Bertha Rogers on audio and videography exhibits and projects since 1994. Together they have produced many audio and video programs.
     This exhibit is made possible with funding from the New York State Council on the Arts Decentralization Program, administered in Delaware County by the Roxbury Arts Group with the support of Governor Andrew Cuomo and the New York State Legislature.  Special thanks to Liz Callahan and the Hanford Mills Museum for supporting the exhibit, which will travel, in late October, to the Delaware County Historical Association Museum and, in November, to the Roxbury Library, also supporters of the project. For more information, contact or call 607-278-5744.

Thursday, August 25, 2016

Not Just Any Moon

Not Just Any Moon

the summer Solstice moon possessed me
nature's rare, majestic orb
in a never ending cycle
spinning my soul ripe for change
why was I out in the woods
powerless to the full moon's glory ?
heart pounding faster than a sane person's would

The moon's beauty unfurled
I merged with it's aura
nature's unharnessed power
man bows down to its radiance

my soul, my love
what happened ?
what force or predator will eventually find me?

It's time to go.... don't look back
the solstice moon my elixir
my savior
the moon beckons, challenges me . " Come dance...I dare you."
Perhaps I'll perish here while the summer solstice moon dazzles,
but for now, I joyfully dance.

Sasha Thurmond 2016

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Sasha Thurmond is a graduate of the Cornell University MFA program where she majored in printmaking. She lives on a farm in South Carolina with her horse and other animals, and sometimes finds time to make art or write poems or stories.

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photo by Sasha Thurmond

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