Experience the Wealth of Fabulous Writing 


In honor of National Poetry Day October, 8, 2015 we are featuring a famous poet from the past, published by Schocken Books, Inc. 


You are one of the many chapters in a book.

You are hidden words that some can’t understand;

        vague as a gray wall.


You are a mathematical equation that only fools try to solve.

You are the worth

        of the message.


You are deeper word by word, like the depth of the blue, salty sea.

You have ups and downs,

        beginnings and endings.


You contain dilemmas and doubts, problems and consequences.

You possess tragedy and catastrophe,

        courage and bliss.


You are amazing to those who look closely to find you.

By:  Caleb Ward


​Cry out for Sakhr when a dove with necklaces 

mourns gray in the valley. 

When warriors put on light woven armor, 

swords are the color of smooth salt 

and bows groan and wail, 

and bending spears are wet. 

Giving, not weak, 

brave like the predatory wood lion 

of Bisha, he battles for friends 

and kinsmen, who are like the lion, 

whom he defends whether of the village 

or wanderers on the desert. 

When the wind howled his people were happy 

as a wind of dust blew under a freezing cloud. 

By: Al-Khansa (575-646 A.D.) 

(Aliki Barnstone and Willis Barnstone (eds.) Women Poets from Antiquity to Now Schocken Books, Inc. New York, 1992. p.92)


​We ignored the price tag on love

because we knew it was out of our means.


We barely had enough budgets for

the slamming doors, the silent nights.


Who can afford this commitment

or fundraise energy for this mission?


Gentleness alone costs all we have.

Selflessness is not a bid item on EBay.


There are no credit cards to borrow kindness;

banks fear the overdraft.


Our parents can’t lend us respect;

infatuation cost them everything too.


We gain, lose, gain, lose—

we have stock market syndrome.


The brawl for tact paid for the smile,

the dance, the calm breakfast.


The fee for faithfulness still is our largest concern.

We always argue who pays more for that bill.


We can’t file taxes on romance;

There’d be no large return anyway.


We can’t get an advance on forgiveness.

Every tear dripped loose is the change in the cushions.


We pay for these kisses

with every I’m sorry,


with every let’s do what you want.

So pricey, so worth it—us. 

By:  J. Chéri

Al-Khansa was born in Arabia. She is also known by her full name: Tumadir bint Amr ibn al Harith ibn al Sharid.  Al-Khansa wrote this poem about her brother who died in a 'tribal battle before the coming of Islam' 

(Aliki Barnstone and Willis Barnstone (eds.) Women Poets from Antiquity to Now Schocken Books, Inc. New York, 1992. p.92)

Caleb Ward is currently a student at the University of Cincinnati in Ohio. There he is studying Business Management. Caleb enjoys the beauty of language and delights in writing during his spare time. 


F.X.LaChapelle lives in Anchorage, Alaska. He holds degrees from Willamette University and Stanford University. His poems have appeared in the DMQ Review, Blue Skirt Productions, Silver Birch Press, Electric Cereal and he has been anthologized in Beyond the Pall. He can be found online at fxlachapelle.tumblr.com.


But the magical bones

                        of the children so hopefully

            soft and unacquainted


with the sting, well of course

                        they did snap and pop

            and break, first

as they were raped and tossed

                        between the mercenaries

            already high on honey-

oil, a sort of spoil of raid

                        as this was no war, and then again

            as the dogs divided

what was left, which the women

                        in their finest spring day waiting

            ironed and tied

watched through vomit; 

                        in turn each was taken

            used and burned


to silence.  In chorus they droned

                        prayers begging

            for an end that would surely

come but only after

                        the well was dry, wild-

            fire consumed, and the faint

scent of forest

                        delivered a final

            merciful memory.

Their men too beat

                        with their limbs

            and screams

at the buzz of flight

                        so numerous in number

            as they fell like pollen

from the planes, and their lives

                        sex frothed in the sea 

            but it was not the birth

of any beauty or goddess, save

                        a secure pipeline

            a cheaper crude, a saccharin

                                    regional security resolution.

​By F.X.LaChapelle

Zuri Zephyrus has pursued her love of art and words since she was a little girl.Through her work, she expresses an appreciation for nature and fantasy.  Both her art and poetry have been featured in literary magazines such as Driftwood and the Promethean.

Zuri currently resides in New York, USA where she continues to study in the field of Fine Arts.


I am at the most elevated level.
This constant metamorphosis is doing away with me.

It’s quite a dilemma,
I must admit.
Soulful insubordination;
I stand so high.
The air is thinning out
as it wraps me in maybes.
I know it’s nothing but a self-defense mechanism:
heart running wild at the sight of the moon.

​By Zuri Zephyrus 

Hal O’Leary, having retired from a life in the theatre at age 84, has turned to writing.  Now, at age 90, he has been published in 18 countries.  Hal believes that it is only through the arts that one is afforded an occasional glimpse into the otherwise incomprehensible. For his contributions to the arts, he is a recent recipient of an Honorary Doctor of Humane Letters degree from West Liberty. University. 


My love for her will be a silken scarf,
As I would want for me a silken scarf.

 I’ll pledge to her a solemn fervent vow.
True love is gracefully a silken scarf.

A brilliant metaphor for love is this,
To close your eyes and see a silken scarf.

The cloth of love is loosely to be worn
And as accessory, a silken scarf.

To keep my love as what I first admired,
My love for her will be a silken scarf.

​By Hal O'Leary 

Maranda Russell is an award-winning artist, author, poet and blogger/vlogger who also has four published books available in ebook and paperback form. She has also had the honor of having her art and writing published in a wide variety of magazines, literary journals and anthologies. You can visit Maranda's website/blog, www.marandarussell.com


My personality
is a patchwork quilt.
I study others
when they aren't watching -
the gifted,
the artistic,
the emotional,
the exposed,
the stubborn 
and the unstable types.

I pick bits and pieces
from each - 
a playful smirk,
a rebellious glare,
a dash of blue
and the sharp edge
of a razor blade.
I throw them all together
and sift through the details
until it looks like me. 

By Maranda Russell 

Julian J. Cobian is a Mexican/American poet who resides in London. He is currently completing his MFA at Kingston University.


    I focus on a forehead.
    Eyes glance forward.
    A smile follows like the first
    gleam of a sunset on a veranda. 
    She stands like a
    flower vase
    beneath the shelves.
    She’s indirect light,
    making her beauty
    my alcove—
    a stance in obscurity,
    a nimble light that suffuses a rare tranquility,
    a dark place that draws mysterious convictions.
    In such a room,
    I write where my ink is thinnest.
    my window built for her,
    my window shield,
    my windowsill for reading.
    A view; where
    the pale white paper is powerless
    to dispel the heavy darkness.
    She is my invisible ink between the lines.

​    By Julian J. Cobian 

Neringa Pangonyte was awarded an MA in Creative Writing and Publishing at Kingston University in London in 2012. 

Neringa writes poetry and prose in both Lithuanian and English and currently working on a humour novel in English and philosophical literary novel in Lithuanian. She is a crafts, chess and ginger addict, but her greatest passion from all is reading. She currently lives in Lithuania.


Plane   soup  in             the     sky     at  five in        the     morning.

Noise   and      signals       of      someone              lacking     oxygen.

I’m      awake to        catch   up       with      peace      on         earth

before  builders    start      work     and     neighbours      complain.


“Life sucks, this life drives me mad” you would say.
I want to delete you.               Silence,           my         fellow.

I’m  not     sure   what   scares      me     about     the  underground.

Worms  smashing into disappointed bodies   from    time to time.

Wieldy            crowds           hurrying           to                be   spread

and      solitude    in    the      car      on       the      last           train.

“It’s accomplished, functional and well-conditioned” you would say.
I   agree, but       it    screws    up         my      neatly     done      hair.

Lift       smells   like   it          has         just        been             cleaned.

I   can even   see  my  to-be-questioned   soul    in     the     mirror.

Framed  notice  to  pay rent   into   new  account,  printed  in  red.

Overtaking      visions           of        a squeezed                       brain.

Thoughts         to         survive     until     it    hits      the       ground.

“But that’s impossible” you would say.

And            I     say    “Shut    up”  and       smack          you        dead.
It’s         hard           to                live                 with                    you.

By Neringa Pangonyte

2015 Featured Poets! 

Julia Rose Lewis is currently working towards her MFA at Kingston University in London, England. 

She received her BA in Biology and Chemistry. Her poetry is often driven and inspired by her scientific training.

​She lives on Nantucket island and is a member of the Moors Poetry Collective of Nantucket.  Her poems have been published in Lemmon Hummus and Other Stories, Tips for Throwing a House Warming Party in a Small Space, Rasputin: A Poetry Thread, and Poetic Medicine.  



Her first horse 

was small pony tall. 

On the dust road, they would go 

serpentining through the potholes. 

They circled the cul de sacs 

in ten meter circles 

like a dressage test, 

practicing for a three-day event. 

She thought she must stand up 

over the speed bumps, 

two-point position, 

or race home,  

chrome flashing eye-white

like stadium jumping, 

before returning to 

live in a small shed called Mouse House. 

The backyard was too small for a paddock, but 

she was too small to know. 

Real horses don't rust. 

​By Julia Rose Lewis