Sentimental Poetry with Anthony Watkins

Moon on a String

 

I wish the moon was on a string, so I could pull it close

Illuminating your kind face with its gentle glow

I wish I could pull it so close that it kissed the earth

You, me, and the moon is all I want to know

 

But I know the string will tug back, pulling me into the clouds

I kick and yell, but it won’t stop even though I am screaming loud

No longer can I see you, no longer can I hear you cry

Oxygen is getting sparse now as reach the end of the sky

 

So, live your life without me, don’t expect to see me soon

Just think of me when you look up hanging from the moon

Patrick Lazzari is a college student, musician, and aspiring poet from Midland Park, NJ. He draws inspiration from experiences he believes are shared by many although not openly discussed enough.

Laura’s Sunday

 

In her city there is a ruined cathedral
in the midst of ruins
its choir is missing
and there is an “Ave Maria” song. 
On the road edges, stones relieve pain
only the choir traces are together with dry 
flower bouquets 
there are many dogs, and trash.

There is a large piano without its proper place.

In her city there is a ruined cathedral
longing for bells’ sounds to awaken her
she wears a beautiful dress, whispers Ave Maria 
in solitude. 

She has a sweet voice, every Sunday she goes 
into the ruins, talks with stones, with flowers 
that do not blossom, she goes easy through ruins
and wipes her happy eyes without trying the voice in a choir.
  
It is Sunday and her delighted eye is resting.
She sings Ave Maria in solitude. 
With an eraser of love she erases the invoice
which time has left behind
while gathering her hands over her pretty breasts,
in silence she opens up a new page and writes a senseless verse.

It is Sunday
she is awakened while dreaming a love temple
and song sounds.

Ave Maria is alive!
And waits for nature to become prettier,
the same as a flower, prettier with all its beauty,
waits to join the choir of life.

She walks over the ruins of the cathedral and lights a candle.

Her pretty knees touch the solid stone.

Ndue Ukaj is an Albanian writer and literary critic.  His poems have been translated into many languages and his book “Godo is not coming” won the national award for best book of poetry published in 2010 in Kosovo.

Ballet

 

They watch her dance.

She’s a showpiece,

a real eyepiece,

an art exhibition,

her body is her show.

Men flock.

Women mock.

Her hips do the talkin’,

right, left, right.

She doesn’t care,

it’s all green

in her shiny underwear.

Clothes on, clothes off,

she’s still cheeky.

A real display,

is her sexy ballet.

Jack Priestnall is a creative writing undergrad at Bangor University, Wales, United Kingdom.

Kelly Writers House

Things to Do in April

Use a shovel on the snow
Let the lonely lion go
Put a message in a bottle
Think about an axolotl

Teach a fogbank how to whistle
Count the angels on a thistle
Practice playing your xaphoon
Sell your house and rent a moon

Don’t ask Jonah “Where's the whale?”
Shake the zombies on your trail
Start a fire with your memoirs
Stand clear of the closing doors

See the duck and then the rabbit
Have some coffee, feed your habit
Take a nap and do the dishes
Pet a tiger, wish some wishes

 

Richard Leach is a widely published sacred poet, writing words set to music as hymns and anthems. For some time now he has focused on visual art and secular poetry.

I Know Why the Red Rose Weeps

 

I know why the red rose weeps

Why she hides her tears in dew

As the summer breezes sweep

From those seas of peaceful blue,

And then like our dreams

She fades with the morning dew.

 

I know why the red rose weeps

Through the dreamy months of June

As the golden breezes sweep

Over the ocean rocks, hewn

By Neptune’s tide

As he guards each sailor’s tomb.

 

And I know why the red rose weeps

While birds sing their matin lay

And a gentle breeze sweeps

Our cares somewhere far away

To where the grasshoppers leap

And the happy children play.

 

I know why the red rose weeps

Through dreary September

As the cold wind keeps

Songs that are more sober

And sap slowly seeps

Into lonesome October.

 

And I know why the red rose weeps

Through those months of January

As the ice wind creeps

Through her sweet sanctuary

And the summer’s cradle

Becomes her cemetery.

 

For when the rose parts with its petals

And the fragrance of its dying breath

On fleeting breezes settles

Seeing her beauty bereft

While the air carries the ocean brine

Makes life all the more sweet with Death.

 

I know why the red rose weeps

When her buds have yet to see the day

When beauty still sleeps

Through flowery May

And the frost still keeps

Our dreams at bay.

 

For as when one can almost hear

The sun’s rays dancing

On the golden fields

And each frond spreading

As the wind softly passes

And the skylarks sing,

 

So I know why the red rose weeps

Why she hides her tears in dew

As the golden breezes sweep

From those seas of peaceful blue

And then like our dreams

She fades with the morning dew.

David B Gosselin is a young translator, poet and linguist based in Montreal. He founded the website thechainedmuse.com

which publishes and promotes 21st century classical poetry. He has a book of poems entitled “Songs of Mortality”

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