Peculiar Habit of Mind-machine
Masudul Hoq
I Met You on My Journey
By:- Jackie Chou
Feel Lightning in Your Wind (V4)
Michael Lee Johnson
I feel light in a thunderstorm.
I electrify your touch through my veins.
I’m the greenery around your life
that breathes your earth into your lungs.
I challenge all your false decisions and doctrines
with the glory of my godliness.
I’m your syntax, your stoic,
your ears, your prize.
I walk daylight into your morning breath
allow you to breathe.
I let the technique of me into your brain cells;
from the top tip to the bottom
of small baby foot extensions.
I’m the banquet hall of all
your joys, damnation;
your curses, your emotions—
and you’re breathing with the wind.
*This poem converted into a song:
Poet In an Empty Bottle (V4)
By Michael Lee Johnson
I'm a poet who drinks only red wine.
When inebriated with earthly
delusion and desire, I crawl inside
this empty bottle of 19 Crimes Red Wine,
lone wolf, no rehab needed, just confined.
Here, behind brown tinted glass
and a hint of red stain, I can harm no one—
body squeezed in so tight, blowing bubbles,
hidden, squirming, can't leap out.
My words echo chamber, reverberating
back into my tinnitus ears.
I forage for words.
Search for novel incentives.
But the harvest is pencil-thin
the frontal cortex shrinks and turns gray.
Come live with me in my dotage.
There are few rewards.
My old egg-beater brain is clunking out.
I lay here, peace and quiet in prayer.
I can hardly breathe in thin air.
I'm a symbol of legacy crumbing
stored in formaldehyde. Memories here
are likely just puny, weak synapses.
"I'm not afraid of death, I just don't
want to be here when it happens."
Looking out, others looking in at me.
Curved glass is a new world intangible dimly defined.
I no longer care about cyberspace, uncultivated
wild women, the holy grail of matrimony.
I likely will never write my first sonnet
with angels; I only fantasize about them in dreams.
Quiet in osteoarthritis pain is this poet
who only drinks 19 Crimes Red Wine.
*Quote by Woody Allen.
April Winds (V3)
By Michael Lee Johnson
April winds persist
in doing charity work
early elbowing right to left
their way through these willow trees
branches melting reminiscences
of winter remnants off my condo roof
no snow crystals sprinkle
in drops over my balcony deck.
Canadian geese wait impatiently for their
spring feeding on the oozy ground below.
These silent sounds
except for the roar of laughter
those April winds—
geese hear nothing
no droppings from the balcony—
no seeds.
Down by the Bridge
By Michael Lee Johnson
I’m the magic moment on magic mushrooms
$10 a gram, amphetamines, heroin for less.
Homeless, happy, Walmart discarded pillow
found in a puddle with a reflection,
down and dirty in the rain—down by the bridge.
Old street-time lover, I found the old bone man we share.
I’m in my butt-stink underwear, bra torn apart,
pants worn out, and holes in all the wrong places.
In the Chicago River, free washing machines.
Flipped out on Lucifer’s nighttime journey,
Night Train Express, bum wine, smooth
as sandpaper, 17.5 % alcohol by volume $5.56—
my boozer, hobo specialty wrapped in a brown bag.
Straight down the hatch, negative memories expire.
Daytime job, panhandling, shoplifting, Family Dollar store.
Salvation Army as an option. My prayers. I’ve done both.
Chicago River sounds, stone, pebble sand,
and small dead carp float by.
My cardboard bed box is broken down,
a mattress of angel fluff,
magic mushrooms seep into my stupor—
blocking out clicking of street parking meters.
I see Jesus passing by on a pontoon boat—
down by the river, down by my bridge.
1. Resurrection
I listen the whispers of the pain
minutely,
Pain compares with me, as if
it's my own shadow!!
Sometimes a
painted lady butterfly stalks at me,
as if I'm the reason for its
pain!
Soaked in the morning glow,
it looks at me,
I try
to get close to it.
I'm no one to stuck with it,
who rules its domain for no
reason!
I wish no Sun
would know my mark to be close to me!
One moon clots in my bed
though much far from me,
I wish I'd reveal my pains to
Him.
Very often
some thoughts still stick in my mind, I'm unable to recognise their
manners and temperament why they appear in my mind !
The memories,
wired with broken memories,
Though I'd like to cherish!
As broken
memories are like exhausted truth,we carry with our dreams and concept.
Conceptual pattern of pains
oozes from my heart,
While I hover
around the thoughts of my early pains!
Before the Moon leaves me
with his glory, I try to hold on his fractured beam, to lighten my thoughts,
The thoughts are my reality,
which shines as glitters in broad daylight!
At about three
midnight, I measure the moon beam ,where your lips got stuck once,
I wipe the dust each night to
freshen up your lips!!
Wet eyes resurrect my
antiquated memories, which I stored on my mind
since pretty long years!
Those memories are like thorns,I wish to get bleed with their prickles,
I redeem my
pains each time with the hurts ,caused by the thorns!!
2. TIME
Glimpses of blinkered past, arrested in
stagnant thoughts ,
Whenever I looked back, I found some dark holes
amidst the misty shadows !
,
Though I found the aromatic fragrance, while holding his hands,
When he says "we fall like Autumn, hug like
winter..", there I meet the biggest pasture among the greenest
meadows !
With time, people change, and
changed are our thoughts,
With time, the dimension and versions too change, someone sought!
But I am pretty naive who believe in togetherness,
Where only the Time stays with us ,to fill the gap, to uplift us and to
caress!
Faded are those love with time,
who ignored its
essence,
I can listen the deepest lament,
though it gets lost each time midway,!
Changing with time not meant to be adjusting,
Rugged hills change its attire by wearing green hay!
3. REWARD
Each inch of her skin poured
elixir of love
She shied still to get close to him.
Each breath of him crawled down her curve,
Speechless moments cherished the moon's beam!
Anyhow she got close to her
deepest passion,
Inhaled his breath to be in life again
They drenched in their passion, as if it was an illusion,
After so many years of longing,
she drenched again in rain !!
He stepped into her life,after a her massive torment,
Ignored and neglected she was, with some agonising pain,
Struggling with her own destiny, a bulb without filament,
She alone was insane among the world of sane!!
He offered his love with his best delicacy,
Thus she retrieved her life, with supreme ecstasy !!
© SONALICHANDA
About SONALICHANDA
Born in Suburban KOLKATA, SONALI CHANDA completed her postgraduation in English
Literature and Language from Burdwan University.
Her writings resemble the current issues and different topics of burning issues
in the country and the social malice.
Last year, Her travelogue" LADAKH...En route Tibetan TABOOS" launched
in Kolkata, Salt Lake, BHARATIYAM!!
Her many poems, short stories has already been published in
different web magazines, including counter currents!
"LOVE'S s FAINT ECHOES” is her debut NOVELLA, releasing shortly..!
©SONALI
I) Autumn Notes
1.
Four sparkling maples
sashay in autumn winds.
dressed in yellow lace.
Half moon hiding in old
oak tree on top of hillside.
Children kicking up leaves
shouting while jumping
over mounds of foliage.
2.
Bright leaves gleaming
in sunshine tumbling
through an Alice blue sky.
Carpets of red yellow brown
foliage unfurls before us.
Walking through trails of trees
becoming spellbound by
leafy giants towering over us.
3.
Morning light reveals
silhouettes of branches
against a dove grey sky.
Grab your coat and scarf.
Where are your gloves and hat?
Hurry, pick gardens of bright
vegetables. Time to cook
big pots of soup, yeasty breads.
4.
Dancing in joyous circles
ragtag russet leaves glow
under the noon day sun.
See them spin rustle-bustle
within a ring of singsong.
Listen to their shuffle
saying they will return soon
dressed in bright green.
II) Imagine
Imagine to be a bird
slicing air with wings.
Up up over that horizon
soaring through clouds
away from solemn earth.
Shining, shimmering
far above this sphere
into clear blue light.
Cutting through sky
gliding over oceans
eyes open all seeing.
Awake all day all night
brushing rushing
against the four winds.
Imagine to be a bird.
III) Thrift Shop
I descend clutching a
teetering banister to the
bowels of this holy place.
A sign welcomes me to
St. Mary’s Basement Boutique
where scent of unloved
clothing assaults me.
I finger grubby blouses
and skirts hanging limp
week after week unwanted.
Where is it? Hidden beneath
mounds of faded tee shirts?
Where is that swag I will
brag on for months?
At last I uncover something
beyond belief….a mohair sweater
snow white with pastel flowers.
A good fit, my prayer answered.
Retired ladies glance up.
They are volunteers filling
another empty afternoon.
The cashier consults her price list.
“One dollar” she says as I reply with
quick “thanks” fleeing blissfully.
When I get home, my bonanza
is baptized in cool water and suds
now reborn, lustrous and all mine.
About Joan McNerney
Joan McNerney’s poetry is found in many literary magazines such as Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Poet Warriors, Blueline, and Halcyon Days. Four Bright Hills Press Anthologies, several Poppy Road Review Journals, and numerous Spectrum Publications have accepted her work. Her latest title, The Muse In Miniature, is available on Amazon.com and Cyberwit.net. She has four Best of the Net nominations.
