Boy do I have a Grumpy Gift for you…

Not only do I love writing but I also enjoy reading. So many of the amazing things I read are enjoyed by so few, as not every literary marvel is also a marketing mogul. It’s this, i care to share most.

Imagination is the reality of the dreamer.

— Scott Ringenbach.

Stay tuned, and keep on orbiting those moons.

Interlude Man —Jay Bleu

I love smelling clean out of the shower
and tossing on my comfy, blue sweater.
Then, I feel cradled by the familiar.

Combining with my fresh and soapy skin,
I’m consumed by a scent that “takes me back.”
It stays on me like golden amber sap.
Shutting my eyes, aroma takes me there:
To a warm, cozy time with family.

The smell of thick incense all over me
from the church service before our dinner,
blended with all the flavors of the food:
Black pepper. . . oregano cutting through,
The sweet cinnamon that spiced the dessert.
And when we hugged, it rubbed off your cologne.

Yes. . .it’s all there. . . though today I’m alone. . .

Read more —Jay Bleu

M – Rascuno – Draft


Just as spring came, so did the day of that flower so particular that it graces our gardens. The one that perfumes our days and brings us joy with its multicolored petals, which despite being in evidence in the spring remain beautiful in any season, not only physically but from the heart. It has thorns, of course, but it does not use them with the intention of hurting, it uses them as a shield to fight evil. She sings, dances, plays, smiles, and laughs at everything, she has no bad time. She knows how to be a friend, partner, girlfriend, warrior. If you know her, you know that what I say is true and should be flattered, it is not always that you find an M with such an open heart.

for more from this deep feeler, click on over: https://rascunhodraft.wordpress.com/

POEM – Dry Fountain Wishes – B Gourley (the !n(tro)verted yogi)


Sly town stretches along the sea,
backed by sacred mountains.
And amid shabby, city streets
sits a broken fountain.

And when the church bells peal at dusk,
the drunk, they sing out loud.
And all the robbers and the thieves
slip through the gathered crowds.

Pockets are picked and watches slipped
from wrists of the hapless.
On painted women, gooseflesh shows —
their tops low and backless.

The dreamers reach to seize a coin
to pitch in the fountain.
Few direct wishes or appeals
to that ancient mountain.

for more from this deep diver, click on over: https://berniegourley.com/

Published in Troutswirl (Haiku Prism – Orange) – Isabel Cave

the irises wallow
in afterglow

Happy to have this haiku included in Haiku Dialogue – Haiku Prism: Orange.

HAIKU DIALOGUE – Haiku Prism – Orange & Intro to the way of …

Isabel Caves at: https://isabelcaves.wordpress.com/

Mr. WB (Writer’s Block) – Vanya Rajwar (The Soul’s Urge)


A Childish and Innocent Tale of how I finally cracked my Writer’s Block and befriended Mr. WB.

We were sitting together yesterday again,

Mr. Writer’s Block and me,

Love is like a beautiful horizon I began,

Not really said he.

My pen swayed and I dropped it down,

As my words failed and no thoughts could be formed by my mind,

Mr. WB looked elated as I stared at him in despair,

He had again succeeded in blocking my word flow and tide.


You know it’s fine, said he,

I pay a visit to every writer now and then,

Why don’t you just welcome me and let me be?

I haven’t visited my blog in days, I say,

Do you realise despite trying to be regular how erratic I seem?

All thanks to you, if truth be said.


I looked at Mr. WB infuriated,

As he sat there sipping his tea,

I was sure he was smirking behind that cuppa.

He observed me for a while,

Glancing over his cup of tea,

I will leave in a few days said he,

Till then, there is not much you can do about it,

Can’t we be friends till I decide to leave?


I left the room in a huff,

Deciding to roam on the roof,

Looking for inspiration in the sky and the trees,

Cursing Mr. WB whole heartedly.

This was when the breeze whispered to me,

Hey, she said, fallen in love again? Heart been broken again?

or Feeling alone again?

None of these, I replied, just that Mr. WB is on a long visit it seems.


The breeze broke into a laugh,

I pouted at her angrily,

My book is soon to be out, I say,

I need to stay regular, you know.

She thought it through with lots of aahs and hmms,

She discussed with the trees and the skies,

At last she made her way to me and said,

Ever tried making Mr. WB your muse?

Give it a try you just might become allies.


I was lost in thought as I came down from the roof,

Mr. WB was still sipping his tea,

Will you be my muse? I ask,

That will be new, he laughs,

So this childish poem was the end result,

When Mr. WB became my muse.


The better part was we became bosom friends,

We ate and drank together,

And the best part was I saw him off later,

He seemed quite pleased as he said his goodbyes,

Next time he probably won’t visit without a prior call again,

But its Mr. WB and with him we can never be sure!



All Rights Reserved. Vanya Rajwar (VRa).

The Soul’s Urge©|2020

online at: https://thesoulsurge.wordpress.com/

Jun03 – Nathan Cocker (Poetry 365)


The Battered Mannequin

"She" leans nonchalantly on a lamp post 
in her fancy shoes. The rubble around "her" includes 
both "her" arms. "Her" breasts are shot off, 
"her" head is dented; This civil war has killed 

"her" trade. Now, "her" display is not new 
clothes. They were all stolen, along with 
"her" dignity, by rampaging looters jumping 
through stoned glass windows.

"Her" best friend lies beside "her" 
in the dirt. Her torn clothes flap 
open in the wind, but, her dignity 
is much worse than the mannequin's.

The soldiers guard her rear.
It lies in a puddle beside them.
Their weapons point skyward
ready to wound her further.

More smoke and tear-gas drift by
and approaching rumbling tank 
tracks are heard as it heads towards 
the mannequin, not seeing "her".

Then, "she" is down, with "her" friend,
and the iron tracks crush her resistance,
quell "her" rebellious streak, silence
"her" model yielding pose.

U.S. Navy sailors and Latino youths clash in the Zoot Suit Riots, which began today in 1943.

The Government of China begins removing protesters by military force from Tiananmen Square, today in 1989.

for more from this creative spirit, click on over: https://poetry-365.com/

My Fantastic Car —Intellectual Shaman

If people could look under the hood of my car

they would be shocked to find what makes it go

without an engine

or oil

it’s traveled far

taken by a magical momentum

There are no mechanisms

or directions

and still it moves

to far away beaches

where the wind grass blows

its rusty


is even rustier


in a different time


of all things obvious

no repairs

or replaced parts

fantasy fuels it


to destinations


will never know.

Chitty Chitty Bang Bang @ Intellectual Shaman

Reception Room 52 – Maria Gianna Iannucci (Reflections on Existence)


sew and patch

a lesser love

the lukewarm quilt

barely covers enough


M.G. Iannucci 2020

I am hemming the sorrow of a courser weave, preparing to leave.


Voluntary simplicity is nonviolent. Choosing to leave lesser forms of loving is also the cultivation of elegant minimalism. The singleness of unity is not scarcity, although I have not succeeded in convincing my ego that it is not terrifying. My deepest longing is for an “other” to share my life’s vision but maybe “God” is the only One who fulfills that completion. I am left in a state of perpetual heartbreak over the world, the ache of authentic intimacy.


M.G. Iannucci 2020 at: https://giannaiannucci.com/

Photo: Woman with pillows