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Kassie @ Facebook.com/KassieJRunyan
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Step into the depths of our labyrinthine theme for the forthcoming spring quarterly issue. We beckon you to navigate the twists and turns of creativity, where every path leads to a unique expression. In this intricate maze of ideas and emotions, we invite submissions of labyrinthine works—be it po...
BEAUTIFUL WINTER SCENE
Mark Hudson
United States
On the day after my birthday,
the sky was cold and gray.
Cold enough for winter clothes,
but we haven’t yet had much snow.
I looked outside my window,
and noticed people below.
A scene like Norman Rockwell,
a vision so pleasant for me to tell.
On the ground as I looked down,
was a mother and child on the ground.
The child himself was rather young,
young enough to think it was fun.
The mother was showing him love,
by bending down and putting on gloves.
On tiny little hands, very small,
the mother bent down; she was tall.
She kneeled on the sidewalk,
to put on gloves and I would gawk.
Seeing this precious moment of living,
reminded me of upcoming Thanksgiving.
To me, this scene brought me joy,
this mother caring for this little boy.
Was I once like this kid before?
My mother is not on Earth no more.
I live on my own, perhaps it is best,
I’m too old to create a new nest.
But I’m in love with the human race,
everybody out there has a face.
Is it too late to stop all the hate?
Can love return to all who wait?
Now is the time to create a new fate.
THE NIGHT I MET CHUCK MOULTON
Stephen Barile
Fresno, California, United States
“A grizzly bear with bad teeth who rode a motorcycle.”
~Jon Veinberg
Well after dark, the sky was brighter
Against the shadows in the woods.
We stood around staring into the fire,
Drinking beer from aluminum cans
Dave kept cool in the creek nearby.
We took turns walking down there,
Retrieving a couple of cold ones.
Dave wanted to see if Chuck, the poet,
His friend from the Tower District
Was camping up here, near the road.
We walked in a mysterious night.
The mountain stars lit our path
In the Ponderosa and Cedar forest
Fixed and motionless in the dark.
We passed the first of flat ground,
A stand of trees, a water spigot,
And a Forest Service outhouse.
We walked downhill on the dirt road
Near the fringe of a meadow of sedges.
The second flat, and burnt-earth area
Where migrating Indigenous people
Had campfires over the centuries
Traversing the Sierra to trade.
Near the horse corral, and third flat,
In the dark background of trees,
A Promethean bonfire lit the blackness.
A holy fire, purifying and wrathful.
A pile of wood to feed the craving.
The silhouette of a European motorcycle,
Somebody was leaning against it.
As we got closer, Dave yelled out.
Chuck jumped up and acknowledged us.
His loud, low, and menacing gruff voice.
Great big, with a long bushy moustache,
Coke-bottle glasses mirrored the flames
While he drank whiskey from a metal cup.
His motorcycle reflected the flames
From the chrome exhaust-pipe.
Three of us stood before his campfire,
When he was the first to speak:
“Hell is full of fire,” he said,
As if he had firsthand familiarity.
“In Dante’s Inferno, Hell is icy cold,
Saved for the worst sinners.”
We declined several offers to share
The whiskey he called “hooch.”
And he told us firefighting stories,
Of great conflagration in the woods.
Heroic struggles to fight flames
With a chain-saw, shovel and Pulaski.
“Indigenous people used wildland fire,
Naturally caused or otherwise,
To encourage growth in oak trees,
To increase their food supply of acorns.”
GONE MISSING
Carl “Papa” Palmer
Washington, United States
https://www.facebook.com/carlpapa.palmer.1
As the new day awaits its morning sun,
the blank page for my poem also waits.
In stillness I listen for an inner voice,
only to hear a deep silence in my soul.
Ends end from where beginnings begin,
but before I can end it I have to begin it.
All I need is that one elusive key word
to massage this pain of self-made hell,
this page containing only a promise of
what may be worthy to be called poetry.
As the sun sets, my page and I sit,
still waiting for what’s gone missing.
FROST
Neal Whitman
California, United States
tucked under a quilt
by firelight we take turns
reciting R. Frost
WINTER DEER
Judy DeCroce
New York, United States
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BCSCZGZD?ref_=cm_sw_r_cp_ud_dp_NK26XGC7WEC6KB0C99E0
https://www.linkedin.com/in/judydecroce/
by the softer snow
stepping gently then more surely
moving shadows darken
pulsing in the wind
see how they walk bending
avoiding what may be hidden
and from the window we catch a stare
a pause
their eyes through the greyness
still, we don’t envy each other
it means very little
interrupting the wild
THE COMING OF WINTER
Christian Ward
London, United Kingdom
When the sky turns
the colour of glowing coals,
the leaves are cover models
showing off shades of pomegranate,
beetroot, pumpkin and terracotta,
and everything is planning
on emerging as a spring postcard,
this is not the time to be a blank page.
Embrace the silence of frost,
the language of snow. Make every
wintery landscape your play.
Be the flame in the hearth. Let all
embrace the warmth as the light dims
and the days shrink and shrink and shrink.
SNOWSCAPE
Adrienne Stevenson
Ottawa, Canada
https://twitter.com/ajs4t
https://adriennestevenson.ca/
https://www.facebook.com/adriennestevensonwriter/
mercury hovers around freezing point
days grow shorter as the sun recedes
in undecided winter light
mist can’t make up its mind
to be snow or rain, frost or dew
chill wind whips, mist coalesces
snowflakes the size of locusts
blaze out of the streetlight
cloud around cars and trucks
like swarms of angry bees
alight softly like fireflies, sparkle
as they touch the frozen road
long, longer dark blue shadows stretch
across golden fields of snow
closer, dimples and pocks
make tiny moguls for elfin skiers
delicate ice devils dance wildly
on greying road surface—hell is cold indeed
human cocoons huddled in firelight
await a signal to release emergent souls
—it won’t arrive for many months
FROST & FIRELIGHT
Maria Thérèse Williams
United Kingdom
https://www.facebook.com/RoamingReflections
https://www.instagram.com/roaming_reflections
https://www.youtube.com/MariaGrooves
I bask in the hug of my woolen blanket
And absorb the glow from the firelight
The crispness of the frost awakens my thoughts
And the warmth from the flames help them thaw
The trees, unclothed, seem to gather around
They feel no shame to be bare in front of me
They seem to breathe in the warmth of the flames
Whilst reserving judgement on my thoughts
The flames dance as if hypnotherapy
And the frost near their feet melts away
Sparks from the fire join the stars in the sky
And I bask in the beauty of the day.
SUBMISSION DEADLINE EXTENDED TO 2/25! Opendoorpoetrymagazine.com [email protected]
Step into the depths of our labyrinthine theme for the forthcoming spring quarterly issue. We beckon you to navigate the twists and turns of creativity, where every path leads to a unique expression. In this intricate maze of ideas and emotions, we invite submissions of labyrinthine works—be it poetry that winds through the corridors of the mind, short stories that unravel mysteries at every turn, lyrics that dance along the labyrinth's edges, or art that captures the intricate beauty of the journey. Take heed, for we extend the deadline by ten more days, granting you the opportunity to delve deeper into the labyrinth of your imagination and emerge with treasures untold. Submit your works and let your creativity weave its way through the labyrinthine depths of our spring issue.
Head over to our website for our newest issue!
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Welcome to our WINTER ISSUE! Frost & Firelight seamlessly melds two contrasting yet enchanting facets of this season: the invigorating chill of frost, symbolizing cleansing, and the comforting warmth and safety emanating from a crackling fire. Interpretations of the prompt vary widely, spanning from...
LOOK TO THE SKY n. 1
To S.
Gabriella Garofalo
Italy
Please act cool, moon, don’t scream blue murder,
The first light of the morning is here,
And warped comms numb days, and diaries-
‘Cause you can’t see her desire in blue
Uncertain whether to lie with fire,
Or a distant laughter in the night,
As the only fire is hailing from candles
And maybe it’s your life to challenge it-
So don’t waste your time, soul,
Just leave, as first light cares for you
Only when you’re gone, you and your rooms,
And never trust heaven’s greed,
This month too warm for winter,
Where the hair is setting ablaze
Limbs in a kiln and time
Anxiously awaits the firing of the clay,
As he’s setting up a personal exhibition:
The impervious black of the earth,
A sand that won’t get involved,
The water of dismay already seared-
Such bloody mess, sure, but don’t kid yourself
You can relight waste, the hoarded dross
Of seasons skies limbs,men who write,
And by a sad alchemy of the years
Even swear they are in love with unsayable shadows,
The unlikely splendour of a start,
Mad air from rejecting windows-
Warped comms again?
Maybe yes if once you hounded the moon, the sky
When they would haunt a spare soul,
But in the end they didn’t choose her,
‘Cause her silent dreams always skip out
After dispersing the undergrowth, the hired storm barriers,
The night standing still at cobalt corners,
And delirious colours shouting ‘no use for you’-
No need for unworthy souls, so they just discarded her.
Michelle Lishman
South Africa
https://www.instagram.com/miki_lishman_writing/?igshid=YmMyMTA2M2Y%3D
Our love is not written in the stars
it's conveyed by the clouds
for when it rains, it makes eternity grow
SEE THROUGH THE SKY
Ellen Suzanne Urowitz
Canada
Are we talking about the sky?
I think so but don't ask me why?
Simple each time I
meditate and look up at the bright blue clouds I cry.
Honest what would I gain if I lie?
As I look through the sky. .
I think free artwork.
The only time I have to look each day is
evening just before I cook.
If I don't spend five minutes looking
and helps me relax.
I wouldn't have enough energy to cook
I tried one and I broke an old antique glass.
THE THUNDERSTORMS OF ARLINGTON
Gary Shulman, MS. Ed.
Virginia, United States
The thunderstorms of Arlington
Envelope me in a soothing blanket of comfort
I am not sure about the reason nor the why
But I am indeed calmed by the tumultuous metamorphosing sky
Bolts of electrons seem to energize my brain
Never forgetting they can so easily bring chaos and pain
Torrents of life-giving rain drumming on my windowpane
In any other situation would certainly drive my OCD insane
So why would a storm so severe calm my senses
Soporifically hypnotize and pacify my defenses
Into the womb I seem to gladly regress
As clouds thickly gray I do love I must confess
Perhaps for just a brief moment, for an instant in time
Mother Nature’s grand majesty becomes supremely sublime
And again, I am reminded of how tiny and small
Humanity is and I profoundly recall
We are merely tenants temporarily on earth
Only here for a moment through hardship and mirth
Not trying to instill fear only trying to share
That these monstrous storms remind us to be aware
Tomorrows never promised and we might not even be here
So, thunder do bellow your basso song
And lightening bolts feel free
To instill fear among the throng
For your anger above reminds earthlings below
To appreciate each moment and make your life-force still glow
SCRATCH THE SKY
Karuna Mistry
United Kingdom
https://karunacreations.wordpress.com/
https://www.instagram.com/karunamistrypoetry/
Sunshine stricken
On patchwork clouds
We lie lazy on a
Soothing moment
Skyscape in view
Of panoramic heat
Sound of nothing
Passing us by…
Until
Fuselage contrails
Tear up the sky
Scratchy streaks
On ruined canvas
Butcher on high
By carvery slice
Slash us back
To city life…
LOOK’D UP IN PERFECT SILENCE AT THE STARS*
Neal Whitman
California, United States
there are a billion zillion
stars
more or less
named, thus far,
only eighty-eight
constellations
so many stars
opportunities galore
for new ones
it takes imagination
to connect the dots
and see a shape
with seven stars
a profile in outline
low on the horizon
•
•
• •
• •
•
BADGER
looks for no trouble
squints in the light
constellations
and poetry
best seen in the dark
* from Walt Whitman, “When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer”
THE SPECTATORS
Carolyn Chilton Casas
United States
https://www.instagram.com/mindfulpoet_/
As the sun begins to set,
on the highest tips
of leafless twigs are perched
at least fifty starlings.
All facing west and trilling.
Why the sycamore today
and not the almost as tall
mulberry trees or oaks?
The best view, perhaps,
as close as possible to heaven.
At other times I see their small bodies
strung out side by side
on the telephone wire
in the hastening dusk.
The birds remind me of beach walkers
at this time of day
stopping to face westward.
It’s as if watching this sinking globe
is a sacrament not to be missed.
WALK ALONG
Shampa Saha
Walk along to some furlong
Stop and stare the sky
Dare to dream and think extreme
To the altitude, high!
Starry nights or scorching days,
The sky is always broad.
Blue and black, never be stagned
Whether the longest road.
Walk along, if no one
Is ready to be your friend
Sky will be there, smile and stare
And reach the goal at end.
Sky the teacher, teaches to be boroad
Teaches to be bright or cloudy
Always be there , where you are
Don't feel lonely, if there is nobody!
Look at the sky, keep thoughts high
Always be happy like a lark
Luna and the sun will be there, just them, stare,
And ignore the ugly dark.
THE NAMES OF STARS
Mark Hudson
Stars, stars in the sky,
show me your significance!
The whole world walks by
with an air of indifference.
If stars are so very vital,
why can’t I see them connecting?
Who got to give them titles?
Where they inspired by their reflecting?
Adam, the first man, named the beasts,
while someone else gave the stars names.
I see a star up above in the East,
a shooting star going down in a flame.
Naming stars has already been done,
the Big Dipper and Milky way known.
No stars visible when seen by the sun,
but when moonlight glows, starlight is shown.
NIGHT
Pratibha Savani
United Kingdom
https://www.instagram.com/pratibhapoetryart
https://www.facebook.com/pratibhapoetryart
Evening begins
Night's a mystery
Wonders of stars
How many do I see?
Cool air whizzes through me
From above it shines
Milky and glowy
Can’t touch, want to
Can’t reach, want to
Following me
Just an illusion
Shadows created
Reality
Evening's ending
Night's began
I wonder around
Hoping I’ve won
PERMANENT EXHIBIT (FLORENCE 2019)
Kathryn Temple
https://medium.com/
https://georgetown.academia.edu/KathrynTemple
We’re tourists at the Uffizi, we don’t know much
about art so listen to the guide, it’s light versus dark,
Botticelli, Leonardo, Caravaggio, chiaroscuro
under the porticos, in the galleries, on every wall.
A madonna cradles a glowing child, all the
madonnas hold hallowed children, the mothers
sit in the dark. I am cranky, I complain,
these women served God, where is their light?
I’m with the science guy, he’s looking for Kepler.
We find the famous painting, smaller than imagined,
the floating face dissolves in the dark, chin buried in black,
he wants to know, what do they have against Kepler.
Cecilia’s shining neck, suspended alit, awaits the sword,
Judith swings a tyrant’s head, blood drips. A swan lies
slick-white against Leda’s dark thigh. Bright-bodied
Hercules fights a green-dark hydra, kill it we think.
We roam from room to room, remark the light, outstare
the dark. Painting after painting, vengeful gods, dying saints,
the medusa, one martyr too many. We’re martyred ourselves,
we’ve sacrificed, our feet hurt, we want the exit, life not art.
Life not art, we walk the grimy streets, the air reeks, Vespas
part the crowds, we scorn designer shops and they scorn us.
People push and shove, they ignore fake David, flock to Ponte Vecchio,
look but don’t buy, complain about the heat, spit in the cobblestones.
Downcast, we hike the hill to the Piazzale, another David, a
closed basilica, we watch the sky darken over the city. A mead
moon rises above the Duomo, a few stars form bright points,
Acrux, Sirius, Cygnus, meteors and moons. Star-lit, enchanted,
we drink from the fountain, eat grapes, bread, cheese,
we are changelings, art lovers now, we review:
Botticelli, Caravaggio, chiaroscuro, beneath the
porticos, in the galleries, on every wall. And here.
This is the sky Leonardo loved.
SKY
Najma Naseer Bhatti
Sindh. Pakistan
Oh! Vast sky,
You are here from centuries,
Your every colour is strange,
And spectrum appears after heavy rain,
Reason of smile on every tired face,
You are shelter for homeless,
How could I define you?
I have no words like stars,
Which represent your charm
Moon is your ornament,
Sun is your necklace,
But instead of all that,
You are victim of all the crimes and injustices happened under you,
How you tolerate it?
From years, you are still stable as at beginning.
DAWN
Cathy Hollister
Tennessee, United States
https://www.poetschoice.in/
golden ring on the horizon
weds night to day
under a rose-tinged cloud trellis
blessing the union
thrush, finch, chickadee join the dawn chorus
thrive, mate, feast
on the morning breeze
as if in worship to the first star
who wishes farewell to the night
and ushers in an open heart
persistent love
growing deep, seeking diamonds hiding
undiscovered, waiting for the brilliance
bursting from the night
binding love reborn in an infant’s cry
bidding the love-lost to join
the sunrise choir of welcome
to the new day
reflected in the drops of morning dew
on each blade of grass
on asphalt streets and prison yards
on weedy lots and palace walls
green sprouts emerge through
the slough of darkness
fluid as deer running through the forest
peace and joy flood
to banish lurking shadows
the marriage of forgiveness and need
delivers the reward of mercy
in the blazing daybreak of
love of all, in all, through all, to all,
within the sight of the morning star
LOOK TO THE SKY
F. Kate Langan
Canada
https://www.facebook.com/fkatelangan
https://fkatelanganauthor.wordpress.com/
When my son was just an infant boy
and my days were filled with him
I'd take him to the park to play
just to pass the time of day.
I'd push him in the baby swing
and this little song I'd sing:
“Look to the sky where the airplanes fly.
Down to the ground where the worms are,
over and over until he could laugh no more.
Pankhuri Sinha
https://www.facebook.com/pankhuri.sinha.56
A plane flying to NY
The big apple, got diverted
To london, the imperial city
Though all theories of neo-colonialism
point fingers at America! The big
M! But listen up, let's not digress
A plane flying to Japan
Flew directionless
For 7 hours, god knows why?
Flights from india
To Saudi and other places?
Diverted ! What the hell happened?
Sky traffic jam?
But that's not the only reason
To look to the sky!
As it is, everyday, we look
At the sky, casually, even
Deliberately, sky is infinite!
Limitlessness is the sky
That place to soar high!
Raise our spirits to float and fly!
But its so much more than that!
The sky is blue and pink and
Red and yellow, and we can't stop
Looking at the horizon!
Where the sun sets and rises and beyond!
In the sky is the other hemisphere
Where the night is the day!
Day is night!
Completing a circle!
Of unchangeable constant!
But we must look to the sky
And not just at it, the minute
We ever trip or fall
Or dither or pause or doubt
Or regret and yes even celebrate
Because the sky
Is the most tranquil
And unending part of our
existence!
LONE EAGLE
Thomas Piekarski
California, United States
Cloistered in my lonely room
with undefinable smells hovering
the phantom bride and groom quit
which peppers me with gloom.
Shadows are randy, no music,
and whir of ceiling fan a bore.
I get a knock on the door,
it’s a maintenance man
come to check my smoke alarm.
His duty to comply with statutes
so this inspection is thorough, dull
enough to make an elephant snore.
News on the net a little scary,
our ecosystem in jeopardy of collapse.
I channel attention to the view outside,
construction of a new strip mall:
the builders have best intentions,
allow for simple access and egress.
I whirl in luxurious dreamscape,
a path out of my lethargy like
zipping through worm holes in space
past galaxies in the blink of an eye.
Screech of brakes and a loud crash
when cars collide and windows rattle.
Strength emerges and bold as an eagle
swooping down on unsuspecting prey
despite absence of Mont Blanc
or any such pinnacle I’d scale
I set a goal to live carefree
like a pollywog in an infinite sea.
Yet that would never pass muster
with modern quantum theory
nor alchemical wizardry.
“Hang it all” I mutter, “think
I’ll pack my bags, ditch this place
and head for Mount Olympus.”
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