Poet's Ink Review

November 2007

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The Soft Breath Of Dusk

In the dark pines
where four-petaled
sundrops grow in
the red yellow dusk
and dandelions are
golden and sweet
swallows arrive by
the river cleaning
their feathers peacefully
by the edge of the water
underneath the warmth
of the low sun before
it lays hidden below
the horizon eclipsed
by the blueness of
twilight while mist
settles among treetops
and the whisper of
an owl's flight ends
when the first drops
of rain begin.

Autumn's Morning Light

In the tips of the cedar trees
when morning mist begins
to disappear I see the snowy
breasted ospreys dark of
wing fly out of reach below
the moon-colored sun and
the green path I follow made
by voles to poppies that
have burst their confines
not long ago. I lay them and
red geums under the pine
where sweet berries lie
hidden by white asters
and the light of a blue
dying sunbow. I hear the
northern oriole sing by
the privet and patiently
watch the sky as the sun
dusts the heavens in gold.

Bobbi Sinha-Morey

Bobbi’s poetry has appeared in places such as Poet's Haven, Ceremony, Shemom, WestWard Quarterly, A Time To..., and To God Be The Glory!, among others. Bobbi’s book of poetry, Firelight On Snow, can be seen at www.ebooksonthe.net.

Making faces for a time, passages and voodoo do

Delusion’s paradise

Sleep, sleep with the angels tonight
But come back to earth he asks you
To sleep with your devil who burns

In hell in exchange for one night
With his arms around you… he yearns
Sleep, sleep with the angels tonight

He says “please, forever be mine”
Such chills when spread across the hearth
To sleep with your devil who burns

Brings you to the brink, ecstasy
All he needs is Eternity
Sleep, sleep with the angels tonight

What Magic in short span of time
Allusion that shrouds these lovers
To sleep with your devil who burns

Bliss in a once passionate kiss
your soul, the only thing you’ll miss
Sleep, sleep with the angels tonight
To sleep with your devil who burns

Stable

Woe is the chair that is
Made to sit alone
How its shinny metallic legs
Gleam for attention

To know the screws with
Their jagged spiral edges
Are the only things ever
Keeping it stable

How it must woe its existence
Of being sat upon and
Then quickly vacated

Only to be pushed up against
The pale colored walls
And attached haphazardly to a table
With a gum incrusted rod

Meagan Nugent

Meagan is a promising new poet. She lives with her parents in McAllen, Texas. Writing gives her the ability to utter her confessions and hope they ring true.

Giving Life

I have relatives who think I don’t have sex
relatives who ask for news
with obvious innuendo at every meeting
people who tell me my clock is ticking
as if they are the voice of my womb
chastising its barrenness
people who call me selfish
for not bringing another person
into our already overpopulated world
of diminishing resources

I give life

to the turtle I help across the road
before being smashed by the next car
to the kitten I pull from the dumpster
in winter and find a home
to the child I help overcome abuse
by teaching safety and self-esteem
to the addict I offer food, clothing
safe haven, sobriety and hope
to the senior with dementia
who thinks I am her daughter
because hers no longer comes

I give life

it does not have to come from between my legs

Jamie L. Mauldin

Jaime is a poet and social worker living in Newport, KY with my husband, 6 cats and a turtle. Besides writing poetry, she enjoys reading, traveling and wildlife photography.

Pumpkin

If only
the whole world
could fit inside of a pumpkin